


Better a broken promise than none at all

by Rubyjooce



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Curtain Fic, Depression, Domestic, Drama, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, Lots of Thinking, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Sex, Suicide Attempt, Victor's Backstory, also navelgazing, minor characters we don't care about die. No one important don't worry., noone wants this fic but here it is, tragic past (tm), victor's navel, what the heck is a linear timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-01 03:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyjooce/pseuds/Rubyjooce
Summary: Trusting that he is loved, and worth loving, comes easier to Yuuri everyday. It doesn't come quite as easily for Victor. In the months that follow Victor's father's death, Victor relearns lessons he thought were long behind him. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? Perhaps life is not that simple.This is a fic about Victor's (tragic) backstory. There is some angst in here but I promise to heap on the fluff about his and Yuuri's beautiful life together in St. Petersburg.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a Mark twain quote.
> 
> Enjoy I hope! :)

Despite how, for most of his life, he had woken early every morning, Yuuri didn’t think he was much of an early riser. In Detroit his practice time had eaten into the dawn hours, and his studies had eaten into his nights, as had been much the case when he was still in school and in the figure skating Juniors. Unlike those days, where he would curse the sun for having the malice to rise, Yuuri no longer resented peeling out of bed at five am for his morning jog. Both Victor and Makkachin were his running partners now, after all.

The alarm on his phone went of first, an attempt at a gentle watery sound, which was nevertheless flat and entirely ungentle first thing in the morning. He smacked it silent as fast as possible. He had dislodged Victor, who was already mumbling at the movements. Yuuri turned back into his arms. Victor came to consciousness with the idle drift of Yuuri’s fingers over his scalp. He turned his head to the closest plane of Yuuri- his chest- and kissed him there. Yuuri smiled as Victor slowly lit up with wakeful energy, drawing Yuuri closer with his long legs and long feet.  Yuuri blinked in the dim, the mess of Victor’s hair directly under his chin the only thing he could see with any definition without his glasses. Yuuri ducked his nose and mushed his face sleepily against Victor’s crown. Victor guessed that there was a kiss somewhere in the middle of that. After enough quiet breaths had passed, Victor caressed a ‘good morning’ to Yuuri’s elbow which was resting in his palm, then stretched widely, waking Makkachin with a small doggy sneeze. Yuuri sighed and sat up, clacking his glasses unceremoniously onto his nose. Victor was sprawled out and awake but with his eyes still closed, smiling and kneading his left foot into the plush of Makka’s ruff as she tried to lick his toes. Yuuri leaned over him and kissed his smile, then headed off to their bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

If you had asked Victor if he was a morning person, he would have furrowed his brow and held his chin like he was considering the precise balance of a jump landing. Then he would have grinned and shrugged and proclaimed happily; ‘who knows?’

“Should we take Makka to the other park today?” Victor asked with a toothbrush in his cheek.

Yuuri poked his head out of the t-shirt he was pulling on.

“The one with the ducks?” Yuuri said, and Victor nodded. He hummed, knowing that this was actually a suggestion to add an extra two k’s to their route.

 “Sure,” and he reached for his own toothbrush now that he was dressed.

A few minutes later, Victor reappeared against the doorframe as Yuuri swilled his mouth clean and dried off on a facecloth. Yuuri looked up as he draped the blue flannel over the side of the basin and Victor pinned Yuuri with a burning gaze. Yuuri just grinned at him and looped his arms around Victor’s neck. Victor slid his hands into Yuuri’s shirt and up his back with no hesitation. Yuuri just grinned wider and slid against Victor’s mouth, happily reacquainting himself with a long kiss.

“Good morning, Victor.”

 Victor ran his lips up Yuuri’s cheek and pressed another kiss close to his ear.

“Good morning, Yuuri.”

When Yuuri had first moved in, he had asked Victor what he preferred in the mornings; tea or coffee? He had already been stirring coffee for himself. They had well-stocked cupboards, and there was an array of things to choose from. Victor shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile.

 “Either is fine, Yuuri.”

Yuuri had squinted at him, slightly puzzled, then a little playful.

“Green tea?” He asked blithely, his back to Victor. Yuuri knew for a fact that Victor couldn’t take more than a few sips of green tea before politely abandoning his teacup.

“Sure.”

Yuuri turned around with raised eyebrows and a laugh on his lips, but he found Victor looking back at him guilelessly. Yuuri was back to being puzzled.

“You hate green tea…?”

“Ah,” Victor nodded as though he had just remembered this fact for himself. “I guess I do, yes.”

Yuuri said nothing for a beat, and Victor jumped in with a quick grin;

“I’m happy to drink it if that’s what you made though, Yuuri.”

“No, no,” Yuuri said gently, but he trailed off, unsure how to articulate his response. He decidedly heaped instant coffee into another cup, and made it like he had seen Victor take it before; with one spoon of sugar.

“How’s coffee?” He handed it to Victor, who inhaled it like mana from heaven.

“Perfect, thank you.”

Yuuri sipped his own milky coffee thoughtfully. His fiancé had a laundry list of quirks; and seeming to forget he liked coffee and disliked green tea was just another one of them. 

But that had been a while back. He’d now been living with Victor for over a year. This morning, while Victor was making the coffee that was now a ubiquitous part of their mornings, Yuuri remembered that odd discovery. By now he knew it wasn’t really that Victor forgot he had preferences. After they drank, Yuuri pulled on his running shoes at the door, and Victor clipped a collar onto Makka, despite never really needing to leash her.

Yuuri frowned. As odd as it was, it was more the fact that Victor just couldn’t directly ask someone else for something that he wanted. Yuuri zipped up his jacket and they headed out into the Russian sunlight for their run.  It was a small thing, but it set up a sort of subconscious signal to Yuuri. In the beginning it had felt like there was a veritable iceberg of things unsaid, reaching far and deep beneath the words and smiles Victor shared.

They slowed to a stop when they reached the park, giving Makka time to explore. Victor drank deeply from a water bottle, and Yuuri admired his sweaty fiancé even as he panted with his arms braced on his knees. They collapsed together on a little concrete bench.

“Two minutes faster than last time.” Yuuri proclaimed tiredly, but proudly.

“Hah, that’s my Yuuri.” Victor praised, hand patting his knee. Victor breathed and looked out unseeingly at the park. Yuuri could see his blue eyes churning with thoughts. He followed Victor’s gaze, but saw only the normal quiet morning bustle revving to life around them. The fellow joggers heaving past in pink and black lycra. Older women with floral scarves knotted beneath their chins, some carrying the odd plastic bag. Makka trotting in-between bushes and sniffing the bank of the duck pond.  Yuuri looked back at Victor, attempting to discern the thoughts with non-existent telepathy.

Victor caught his eye.

“You could just ask me.” He murmured.  

“Eh?” Yuuri yelped eloquently.

Victor snickered.

“You want to know what I’m thinking. It’s written all over your face.”

“Ah, um, sorry.” Yuuri stammered out, feeling caught out.

“Don’t apologise,” Victor chastened gently, all too used to saying that to Yuuri.

Yuuri flushed and studied his shoes for a minute. He turned back to Victor after a moment.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.

Victor smiled.

“I’m thinking that I’m happy, Yuuri.”

“O-oh. That’s, um. That’s good.”

Yuuri was looking at the side of Victor’s face. He hadn’t met Yuuri’s gaze. He was staring out like his eyes could gather up the light in hay bundles, and store the loveliness deep in his heart for winter.

“I’ve never been this happy Yuuri, never in my life.”

The words moved Yuuri’s insides around. He didn’t say anything to that, just kept his gaze turned on Victor until he was looking back at him.

“I’m happy you’re happy, Victor.” Yuuri offered.

Victor’s seriousness had passed by the time they had run back to the apartment. He spent ten minutes matching his sunglasses to his coat. (“Victor it’s just the rink, does it matter that much if it matches?” Victor had put his hand to his heart, as though mortally wounded. “ _Yuuri,_ of course it matters.”)

They got to the rink by seven thirty, and Yuuri’s curiosity was put on the backburner for the duration of practice. A year back, when he had first arrived here, the rink had felt too large, he had felt too small.

But Victor would hold his hand as they made their way to the locker rooms.

This morning, Mila swooped into the rink brandishing her phone; she had found pictures of tiny ten year old Yurio’s first days in Yakov’s fold, and proclaimed she would just _die_ if she couldn’t show everyone when Yurio was, in her words, “the fiercest newborn kitten” she had ever seen. Victor had wailed his joy, and then saved it as his phone background, tweeted the picture with _#newbornkitten_ , and also uploaded it to his Instagram.

Yurio had slammed the doors to the rink open and greeted them by screaming;

“I’ll show you ‘newborn kitten’ you bald old man!”

Victor just giggled innocently and skated away from the terrifying teenager.

“I’m coming for you too, _hag!”_ Mila just laughed harder and gripped the rinkside boards for support.

Yuuri laced up and pulled on his gloves.  Moving his home rink to the bustling St Petersburg had been nearly as big an upheaval as his first move abroad, to Detroit. It was familiar, in that his rink in Detroit had been just as busy, and that he yet again was stuttering out greetings in a new language.

The cavernous rink was filled with sunlight and laughter. The sun streamed through the extravagant windows and the ice would snick and purr under his feet. The huge Russian flags fluttered from all corners. Yuuri felt borne aloft, prouder of himself with each passing moment. 

Yuuri mulled over their conversation again while Victor was out on Makkachin’s evening walk.

“Victor...” Yuuri began.

“Hmm?”

Victor was chopping the carrots into long slivers, Yuuri was sautéing the onions. They had the news on; the channel switched to TV Asahi so they could listen in Japanese.

_...And viewers in the South please beware the heavy rainfall..._

Yuuri frowned at the softening onions. He was considering how to start the conversation delicately.

Victor glanced over his shoulder at Yuuri. He stuck a piece of raw carrot in his mouth and crunched absently. This wasn’t something Yuuri was angry about, Victor couldn’t pick up any annoyance in his tone.  Yuuri was hesitant, Victor blinked. He was anxious, actually. This wasn’t something flippant. The sparkle of his eyes seemed sad. Victor's concern grew, but he pushed up his sleeves and moved on to slicing the bell peppers, waiting for Yuuri to speak.

_“..the popular voice actress has announced her engagement to long-time girlfriend and pianist...”_

Yuuri turned to fetch the julienned carrots and upended them into the pan. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“This morning, what you said...”

Victor couldn’t really see where this was going, but kept his expression neutral.

“That I was happy?”

“Yes,” Yuuri nodded.

“Victor, you looked...” He nudged his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture. “You looked like…like you were trying to hold onto that happiness very tightly.”

The tension in their kitchen ticked upwards. Victor considered for a moment, seeing now where Yuuri was heading.

“I was.” He made sure to put a smile in his voice.

Yuuri continued, feeling more assured.

 “Your happiness isn’t going to just up and leave you, Victor.” _I'm not going to up and leave you._

Victor said nothing for too long a pause. Yuuri felt his worry surge.

“...It might.” The smile was still somewhere in Victor’s voice, though it sounded just a little bit forced.

Yuuri fell silent. After a moment he added the bell peppers to the pan. Victor had moved on to the cabbage. Yuuri was breathing through the thought that whatever unnameable bad feeling was here, it was somehow his fault.

Yuuri recalled then a conversation they had had ages ago. A short affair that had started with him asking to meet Victor’s family.

“Why would your happiness leave you, Victor?” It was almost a whisper. This whole conversation had charged the air between them irrevocably.

It took a few moments of soft sizzling for Yuuri to realise that Victor had stopped chopping.

“I was never really happy to begin with.” Victor supplied as some sort of answer.

Yuuri turned to look at Victor properly. His shoulders were as stiff as a broomstick. A pained smile stayed fixed in place as he stared off somewhere beyond the TV. It looked like it has cost him to say even that little.

Yuuri flicked off the stove plate and wiped his hands on his apron. Victor turned to him, still smiling, but seemingly shamefaced and unwilling to hold his gaze. Victor wanted to say that it was nothing, the words were halfway up his throat already.

Tentatively, Yuuri reached for Victor. He seemed surprised at the touch, but melted into a hug. There was so much that Yuuri wanted to know, but he choose to say nothing.

Victor curled against him, the vegetable knife still held awkwardly in his fist. He was terrible at this, he thought, but the blessing was that he wasn’t so terrible at hugs.

“I’m happy now, Yuuri.” It sounded like so many things. A thank you, a promise. A very quiet prayer.

Yuuri let Victor just hang onto him. The TV nattered to fill the silence.

_“…and tonight we have special guest Kubo on our show! Thank you sensei for joining us...”_

Yuuri listened for a little while.

“She’s definitely my favourite writer,” Yuuri said, his chin propped up on Victor’s shoulder so he could squint at the TV.

“Oh?” said Victor, laughing as the tension broke.

“She’s blood type A, same as me.”

 Victor laughed and pulled back. Yuuri squeezed his hand and returned to the frying pan.

They ate on the couch, Victor’s feet in Yuuri’s lap.

The plates migrated to the table and they were watching a couple’s gameshow.

“Why have we never entered a couple’s gameshow, Yuuri?”

“Oh my god, _Victor.”_ Yuuri whined.

“It would be so much fun!” Victor chirped. “We’re famous, maybe someone’s asked us already! And I know how you like to delete all your interview invitations, Yuuri, it’s terrible.”

“Not all of them,” Yuuri groused, but not unhappily.

“Too many.” Victor retorted.

Yuuri sighed fondly. Victor was splayed like a long string of spaghetti, mostly draped across Yuuri. His shirt was riding up over his stomach. His blue eyes were so bright. It gripped at Yuuri’s heart fiercely. A second later, he was pinning Victor down with his body, kissing him.

“Mmm…” It was the only thing Victor could say against Yuuri’s bruising lips.

Victor cupped the back of Yuuri’s head and licked over his lips. Yuuri hissed. Victor’s other hand found perfect purchase on Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri sucked at Victor’s earlobe, and he writhed up against Yuuri.

 In a few moments, Yuuri slid to the floor between Victor’s legs. He held Victor’s gaze as he sucked him down.

That evening, Victor rode him right there on the couch. His thighs burned from fucking himself on Yuuri’s cock, and his nipples burned from rough bites, and his heart burned from the hunger in Yuuri’s brown eyes. Yuuri relished his moans and yelps, he loved Victor coming undone, as always, by the force of their pleasure. Victor bit at his neck, scrabbled at Yuuri’s shoulders. When he begged Yuuri to come inside him, Yuuri couldn’t help but obey. Victor laughed freely; loving the singular power of bringing Yuuri to orgasm.

In bed, just before he drifted off to sleep, what Victor had said earlier floated back to him.

_I’m happy now, Yuuri._

He hadn’t clicked before, but it struck him now what that loaded phrase sounded like. It made him shift uneasily. Victor sounded afraid. He glanced over at his passed out lover, face utterly peaceful in sleep. Yuuri counted his breaths and let the anxiety drain from him with each one. Soon he was asleep as well.

A few days later, when they were at the rink, Victor got a phone call.

He wandered off to the side, and Yuuri skated to the boards. It wasn’t a very long call, but he made no move to return after it had clearly ended.

Yuuri frowned, coming of the ice and slipping his skate guards on. He joined Victor, who wore an extremely vague expression, which looked like he couldn’t decide what emotion to settle on, if any. His fingers were tapping over his lips, he was thinking.

“Victor…?”

Victor looked up at him, and Yuuri was relieved to see that whatever it was, he didn’t look terribly troubled.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor said, “Sorry about that, I had a phonecall.”

“Who called?” Yuuri turned back to the ice, and Victor fell into step next to him.

“Someone named Mr Ivanov, he’s a lawyer. I don’t know him.”

“Oh?” asked Yuuri, very curious.

“Ah,” Victor hemmed, like he was considering the weather, “It seems my father’s dead.”  

 Yuuri whipped his head around to stare at Victor in shock. He had no idea what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, please holla in the comments I'd love to know what you think :D 
> 
> Here is my [shitty tumblr](http://rubyjooce.tumblr.com/)  
> I'll post updates and also ramblings; so hit me up


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so; chapter two. :D keep your eyes on the tags! There's new ones.

A few mornings before his father died, Victor woke up early. It was nearing four am when he checked his phone, much earlier than the alarm would go off. Standing in the dark kitchen, he tried to fight upwards from the dark waters of a dream.  

He couldn’t remember it, but the feeling was still pressing down on him too heavily, like a dead limb draped across his throat. He needed to breathe, so he slipped away from Yuuri’s warmth into the quiet of their apartment. Makka had woken up at his movements, yawned, shuffled into the warm spot he had vacated, and gone back to sleep. Victor held back a chuckle. _You know which side your bread is buttered on, don’t you girl?_  

He made a cup of coffee, not trusting he could go back to sleep. The vague threat of the dream was lingering behind his eyelids. He tried to blink it away. If he was honest with himself, he knew where this was coming from.

He was afraid, and his fear was sticking words to his throat, not letting the things he wanted to say come willingly. Not even when Yuuri gentled it out of him with his compassion. The hesitance was swallowing him up. _How dare he take from Yuuri? Victor was the kind of person who would consume until there was nothing left. He just took and took and-_

 _“_ Ach!” he struck his fist lamely against his thigh, trying to jolt himself from the spiral. _Stop._ He wanted to tell himself more than that, he felt he _should_ tell himself more than that. Be gentler, re-write what those words were saying. But even in the empty gloom, with not even the birds paying any attention to him, he knew he would feel like a fool. _What kind of weakling needs to say soft words to himself? Soft words would spoil him, make him selfish, make him more self-indulgent and narcissistic than he already was._

He twitched again, striking his fist to his thigh just a little harder. _Stop. Enough. Stop._

He breathed in. Fine. If ‘stop’ was all he could manage; then it was all he could manage. He breathed out.

Then Yuuri padded out of the bedroom, looking like he had left half of himself tucked in the bedclothes. He came in close, bare feet right next to Victor’s bare feet. His hands came up to feel the warmth of Victor’s steaming coffee mug and he squinted up at him. He hadn’t put his glasses on. Fresh guilt choked Victor for waking Yuuri up so early.

“Victor…?” Victor heard the question, sleepy though it was. _Are you okay?_

 _Yes Yuuri I’m fine, go back to bed_.

_Don’t worry about it._

_I’m sorry. I should have woken you._

Victor didn’t really want to say any of that.

Yuuri would look at him, would search his face. ‘I love you, Victor.’ He would probably say, then shuffle from the kitchen and go back to bed. Victor knew he would watch him go; imagining each point at which Yuuri could turn around with preternatural powers of empathic deduction. Victor imagined him wishing Yuuri would push past Victor’s double-blinds and self-deceptions. And he imagined Yuuri failing a test he didn’t even know he was taking. It wasn’t fair; Yuuri couldn’t do that. All he had was his trust in Victor. His trust that Victor would tell him what he wanted. What he needed. Victor could watch him go, feeling like each step away was nailing his heart into a coffin. Victor felt the angry bruises that would bloom with the sound of each step. _How dare you leave me when I’m upset like this? Is it because you don’t love me? How could you not know what I wanted without me having to tell you? How dare you not be able to read my mind?_

Victor sucked in his breath with resolve. Yuuri was right here, in front of him, quietly listening for an answer.

“Yuuri, I…” victor hurried the words out his mouth, before he could doubt himself again.

Yuuri stopped, looking questioningly at him.

“What’s wrong, _Vitya_?”

Victor’s arms came around him, so grateful that he didn’t have to make eye contact. He felt like some fluttering insect, banging repeatedly against a burning lightbulb, trying to fly towards the moon.

“Feel strange.” He said. “Strange dream. I’m a little off-kilter.”

Yuuri nodded against his chest. Victor just breathed. The first bird started chirping. It was so quiet and still, the sound echoed like the bird was in the room with them. Small and sharp and alive.

“What was it about?”

“Can’t really remember…” Victor trailed off, but Yuuri just waited.

“But I felt so…bereft. Like someone had stolen my skates. Like someone had stolen all the skates I could ever use. Like being a child again, you know?”

Victor wasn’t looking at Yuuri’s face, so he missed Yuuri’s frown at that last phrase.

They began sharing the cup of coffee. He and Yuuri held each other on the couch as more birds joined the morning chorus; one by one. They sat until Makkachin made a disgruntled appearance, impatient for her walk. Victor relaxed, he breathed a little easier than before.

A mere handful of months after he and Yuuri had moved in together, Victor had won the European Championships. It was the year of his comeback. It wasn’t the first time he had won, of course. But For Victor, this time felt like the very best of all the other times combined. Yuuri had kissed his engagement ring before both of his programs. Yuuri had sat with him at the kiss and cry. He had held tissues out and wrapped him in his Russian team jacket even as Victor had crooned about how he would rather be wearing a jacket of Yuuri’s. When his performances ended, the audience pelted him with flowers and soft toys. For the first time in his life, he was being given oversized sushi cushions. He saw people holding handmade signs with his name written in katakana. He was so happy his cheeks ached from his grin.

Yuuri had grasped his hands, and had spoken so earnestly to him.

“You’re smiling,” he said to him tremulously.

“Of course, Yuuri!” Victor was glowing white-bright. Not even sports-warehouse fluorescence could detract from his brilliance.

“No I mean, you’re _really_ smiling,” Yuuri squeezed his hands, “not just for the cameras.”

Victor had been taken aback for a second, and was then flooded with love and affection for his adorable, blushing fiancé. His heart ached with how full it felt. Yes, he was really smiling.  Yuuri had kissed him then, wanting to feel it for himself, as if joy could be absorbed through the skin. Victor kissed him harder, and figured that actually it could. If not, they would just keep kissing until they made it so.

Yakov had been, in Victor’s opinion, truly relieved. Victor had lost to Yuri Plisetsky at the Russian nationals, to no one’s real surprise. Georgi had cinched the silver medal. Victor had honestly been using it as a warm up; as disgustingly arrogant as he thought that sounded. Even he did not expect to spring right back into skating after a year off and win a gold. Third place was a success, but it felt like everyone was waiting on him to take gold at the Euros. _Gold at the Euro’s, Victor. Or else._ He pushed the thought away.

Victor realised that he, finally, wasn’t waiting on that gold at all. He was on the ice, skating for the joy of it. Skating for Yuuri. Skating because he had missed it, because it made him happy. He could have come sixth, or fourteenth, or thirty-second. For the first time in his career, winning was immaterial without it being that skating itself was meaningless.

The only person who seemed at all put out about his gold at the Euros was the person in second place; the nearly-sixteen year old Yuri. Yuri was raging about how Victor would eat his ice at Worlds, how his revenge would be swift and brutal, how he was gonna crush him into dust, “… _so stop smiling at me you old fart!”_ Victor had hugged him.

Victor couldn’t _stop_ smiling. Yuri’s Agape program was still a force of nature. Competing alongside him was thrilling in its own right. Honestly, Victor thought he was also privately grateful to have Victor back on the ice, to skate against. He had struck a chord (strummed them, more like) at the previous year’s Grand Prix, when Yuri had kicked him in the back, had furiously challenged him.  Victor had swiftly swallowed down his temper that day, because he knew that truly, he had been missed.

At the Four Continent’s Championship of the same year, Yuuri had won gold by a ten point margin. The night before his freeskate, Yuuri was already in first place. Victor had watched him shudder down the cliff of an adrenaline crash. He had wanted a shower, and some time, so Victor had happily wandered down to the hotel bar. He chatted with coach Celestino and Phichit. Before that moment, he had no idea that hamsters had personalities, but somehow, he came away from the conversation wanting to get at least ten. And a castle-shaped hamster gym. He wanted to name them all ‘Yuuri’.

When he returned to their room, he found Yuuri with his exercise mat rolled out, doing crunches. His face was blank, but his eyes had a manic gleam.

“Yuuri…” Victor began, “How many reps have you done?”

Yuuri didn’t reply. Victor saw the sweat on his throat, down his chest. His jaw was so tightly clenched that Victor’s was hurting in sympathy.

“Yuuri. I don’t think pushing your body is the best idea right now.”

Yuuri just switched up his position, pulling into a hamstring stretch.

“You need to relax. Have you had a shower?” Victor could see he was still in his tracksuit; he hadn’t showered.

“Yuu-“

“I’m fine, Victor.” Yuuri snapped. Victor sighed and shrugged out of his jacket. Yuuri moved to stretch into a split.

“Ah! Dammit.” He must have pressed on a bruise, because he jolted and wobbled. After a moment of his furious silence he slumped off to the side; a jumble of defeat.

“The last time I was in first place after the short program was Cup of China.” It was mumbled into the carpet. Victor knelt down in front of him, helping him up.

“What about Japanese Nationals?” Victor quirked his brow.

“That’s- that’s not…” Victor heard the qualifiers. _That’s not the same, not international, not as important, not as scary. It doesn’t count._

Victor just held his gaze.

“It counts, Yuuri. And you were okay. At Nationals, and at the Cup of China last year.”

Yuuri sighed. He was flushed. His hair was sticking to his face. Victor held back the urge to lick him; just for a taste.

“Let’s have a bath, Yuuri.”

“Together?” Yuuri squeaked. Yuuri always squeaked. It was delightful.

“Yes!” Victor beamed at him. Yuuri chuckled at his excitement. The distraction was working already.

“It’s not like we’ve never bathed together before…” Yuuri muttered.

“It never gets boring!” Victor called from the bathroom where he was already opening the taps.

The hot water was just what he needed. Yuuri had melted against the tub, and Victor had melted against him, silver head lolling on Yuuri’s sternum. Yuuri dragged a wet hand through Victor’s hair. The world was shut away, very far away, outside. It was them alone, but together. The water lapped at the odd folds and divots of their bodies. There was a little puddle in Victor’s navel, and his soft cock bobbed gently, just another afterthought of skin. Victor rose with Yuuri’s inhales, and fell with his exhales.

“Am I ever going to meet your parents, Victor?” Yuuri piped up out of nowhere.

Victor was proud that he only flinched a little.

“Ah! Sorry! I… I, uh... Never mind.” Yuuri stammered. Victor’s gut clenched. It was a combination of things. Guilt that he hadn’t said more to Yuuri, anxiety at the topic. And resignation. It had to happen sometime. Why not now, when Yuuri was asking, and so clearly needed to be out of his own head?

“No, it’s okay Yuuri.” Victor sounded so calm, he marvelled at it.

“It’s my fault we haven’t talked about this before.” He tried to keep his tone light. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“I know it’s, it’s not the same as me with my parents.” It was as tactfully put as it was ever going to be. Victor watched the currents move when he waved his hand underwater.

Victor was thinking of the first time Yuuri had tried to innocently ask this question; as anyone would; friend or lover. _Or fiancé,_ he thought with some chagrin.

It had been in Hasetsu; before they had even kissed for the first time.

_“What are your mom and dad like, Victor?” Victor had stopped walking. Yuuri had turned to look at him. He tried for a smile; if the empty thing contorting his face could really be called that._

_“Ah, how do I say this in English….? Hmm. I don’t really see them, so they’re not really worth talking about.”_

_“E-ever? You don’t see them ever?’” Yuuri had been too surprised to be sensitive._

_“Ever.” Victor had replied._

It ended the conversation. It had been the end of the conversation for months. Until now, apparently. Victor sighed deeply.

“What do you want to know, Yuuri?” Victor thought it might be easier this way. He wouldn’t have to start from the beginning, he could skip over a few things. _Yuuri couldn’t see his face. He could just lie if he needed to._ He pushed the thought away. There was no reason to lie to Yuuri. They were wearing each other’s rings.

Yuuri skimmed his hand over Victor’s chest. It was nice.

“When did you last see them?”

“When I turned eighteen.” Victor cleared his throat. Yuuri deserved a little more detail than that.

“I last saw my mom when I was eighteen. My father…before that. I’m not sure. Maybe I was sixteen.”

Yuuri stayed quiet for a while, thinking. Victor kept expecting him to ask why. Or maybe ‘what happened?’ He didn’t quite know what he would answer. Victor was a winner. An athlete, a celebrity. He was the _Hero of Russia._ If he was the product of his parents, they couldn’t have been so bad, really. _What happened, Victor? Nothing. Nothing happened._ But that was a lie. And Yuuri hadn’t asked that, had he? _Stop. Enough. Stop._ Victor wiped his face with his hand, and pushed the thought away.

“But what if you,” Yuuri gulped, “Got injured…? Or sick...?” he seemed loathe to even entertain the thought. It was an important question: what if the doctors ever needed to contact Victor’s next-of-kin?

“Oh,” that was an easy one, Victor thought.

“Yakov has my power of attorney.”

“Ah.” Yuuri said simply, like it made sense. “That’s good.”

Yuuri gave up on using words to express anything more emotionally complex than that. Instead, he was stroking Victor’s skin. He moved softly, dripping over him like the idle water droplets. He traced the shape of Victor’s bicep where it was propped on the bath ledge. Victor focused on the trails of Yuuri’s fingers. It was soothing.

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Victor had come this far, it felt like it would be somehow worth it to just keep going.

“I’ve legally disowned them. In my will.” Victor again marvelled at the words once they were out of his mouth. Yuuri’s hand never stopped stroking.

Victor tilted his chin back and stared at Yuuri from upside down.

Yuuri blinked at him. He looked incredibly serious, but unsure. It gave him a little discontented frown. It was an expression that Victor couldn’t help but find impossibly cute. It was the wrong thing to be thinking in the middle of this sort of conversation, but there it was. Oops. Victor shot him a crooked grin.

“You’re so cute when you’re serious, Yuuri.” He gave him a salacious wink.

Yuuri pouted, and flicked some water at him. Victor giggled. Everything felt a little bit floaty. Maybe it was the steam.

“Thank you for telling me.” Yuuri said.

Victor wrapped those words around his heart, very, very carefully.

The moment had passed and not passed. Yuuri wasn’t going to ask him anything more, but Victor didn’t want to say anything. He was a little scared of his brashness shattering their pearlescent, steam-soft bubble. Besides, he couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. Something would spill over.

Yuuri picked up a facecloth, and then the tiny hotel soap. He began washing Victor’s chest.

After he was done, Victor twisted and took the soap and cloth to return the favour. When he had washed his way to Yuuri’s hips, he stopped. But Yuuri caught him by the wrist. He pulled it down, palmed himself with Victor’s hand. Victor felt the swell of Yuuri; hot for him, hard for him. He gasped. Yuuri smirked, just a little. It shot something like fire through Victor’s blood. Victor wanted to exhaust him with pleasure, wring him dry, make him weep and beg. He wanted Yuuri to grab him harder, to shove him to the floor, to take Victor over and over until it hurt. But it was the night before the free skate, so Victor just took him in hand and whispered the desperate filth into his ear instead. Yuuri’s bit him hard when he came. Victor, of course, would choose not to wear a scarf the next day.  Most people looked away, embarrassed when it caught their eye. Phichit took a photo. Yuuri let himself stare at it just before his skate, and he had won gold.  

The first thing Victor said to Yuuri, right after he had told him his father had died, was ‘don't apologise.’

Yuuri had to collect his jaw off the floor, but he nodded.

“Should we stop skating for the day?” Yuuri’s voice sounded odd to Victor; but he couldn’t place why.

Victor shook his head no.

“Run through your programs again.”

Yuuri was swallowing heavily. He didn’t like what Victor was saying. He placed his skate guards in Victor’s grip. Victor wasn’t sure when they had reached the ice.

“You’ll tell me what you need.” It wasn’t a question, but Victor nodded. It was a little bit delayed.

It still felt like there was something wrong with Yuuri’s voice. As he skated away, Victor realised it wasn’t something wrong with just his voice. All the audio was out of sync with the video. On everything. The split-second of delay made everything strangely unintelligible.

Oh.

Victor knew what shock was. He also knew what this was. They weren’t they same thing, not fully.

When he looked up at Yuuri it was from behind a pane of glass. A pane; because it was flat, but he couldn’t think if it had edges. He tried to follow Yuuri’s movements, but his eyes kept straying to stare at the yellow plastic moulding running along the top of the boards around the rink. It was hard to move his eyes. He tried to understand the colour, but it kept escaping him. An unreasonable yellow. The hardness of the light shining on it kept his gaze tangled. The incomprehensible colour stared back at him. He spotted a dark grey crack, a black vein, and followed it, over and over, but it gave him nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 haha so yeah. What did you guys think? I'd love to hear from you.
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblorg ](http://rubyjooce.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love my podium family.

Three months after moving in with Victor, after his Four Continents win, Yuuri was back in St Petersburg and training for Worlds. He was idly watching Victor pounding out his jumps on the ice, while he stretched out his toes on the bleachers. He was heading off for the day; looking forward to a few hours of gaming and maybe facetiming with Phichit. A hooded teenager dangling his skates over his shoulder slouched up the bleachers, climbing the steps two by two. Yurio slumped down next to him, looking less sour today than most days. Skating always seemed to take the edge off. It was something they had in common, Yuuri had found.

“Oi _Katsudon_.” Yuri began in that way he had, of making a greeting sound like a poke in the ribs.

“Gimme your phone.”

Yuuri tilted his head in askance but handed over his phone, still unlocked.

“Hi, Yurio,”

Yurio just flicked his fingers over his shoulders. Yuuri charitably interpreted the gesture as a ‘hello.’

“What do you want it for?” Yuuri asked, but was just ignored.

Yurio fiddled around on Yuuri’s phone, then swiped around on his own one, and then switched back to doing whatever it was on Yuuri’s. After glaring at the side-by-side screens for a few seconds, he handed it back.

“I sent you Otabek’s new track.” Yurio avoided his eye contact, glaring towards the ice as Victor launched into another triple salchow.

 “It’s good. Obviously. And it’s got that wibbly folk-nonsense sound that you like.” Yurio’s gaze flicked over to him for a millisecond.

Yuuri smiled and felt his fondness for the young man grow. Yurio’s friendship was hard-won; but, he mused, quite honestly priceless.

“Thank you, Yuri.” he replied seriously.

“Yeah, Yeah,” Yuri replied, but he sounded pleased.

They sat watching the skaters for a while. On the far side there was a little posse of juniors being taught by a coach Yuuri hadn’t met yet. Mila was stretched into a beautiful Biellmann. Yakov squarely faced the rink. He looked his usual immovable self; eyes intent on his skaters, looking more mountain than man.

“What are you doing for your birthday, Yurio?” Yuuri asked.

Yuri tsked, hands deep in his pockets.

“I’m not five, I don’t care about birthdays or whatever.”

“You’re sixteen,” countered Yuuri. “I think it’s a big step.”

“Yeah, a big step closer to when puberty fucks up all my balance.”

“Yuri…” Yuuri sighed. His searchlight gaze that usually undid Victor in a trice was not at all effective on Yuri. He changed tack.

“Victor and I thought we could do something. He’s usually the one to organise your birthdays, right?”

Yuri looked at him in surprise. Yuuri thought he looked incredibly young when he was surprised.

“He told you that?”

“Of course. Otherwise how could he do it this year?”

“…I didn’t think he would do anything, this year. Now that he’s busy with…now that he’s busy.”

Yuuri was surprised at the admission. But this dejected jealousy wasn’t new. Yurio had lost his priority status all the way back at the Onsen on Ice competition in Hasetsu. It was easy to see it in black and white terms; Yuuri had won, and had had the entirety of Victor’s attention since that day. Of course it felt like there would be none left for Yurio.  He hadn’t fully realised how close Victor had been to the boy, before he and Victor had met. It was no wonder Yurio had been so jealous. Out of nowhere, and seemingly without discernible reason, Victor had packed his bags and booked a one-way ticket to Japan. Yurio had been booted all the way from first place to afterthought. And on top of that, he had been expected to just accept it; to quietly stay in Russia and act as though nothing had changed. Because adults had their own lives. Because Victor had his own life.

Yuuri felt torn. Victor had talked to him about Yurio, many times. He had long conversations with Yuuri about how growing up as an idol made it particularly difficult to learn that you weren’t the sun around which the whole universe orbited. IF you were great, like Yurio was, everybody loved you. It was a reality that Yuri’s Angels really did dog Yurio’s very footsteps. People threw money and praise and modelling contracts at him. But the people who were closest, who he cared about the most, didn’t see him through rose-tinted fame-goggles. They saw him as a mere planet, not a sun. It was a contradictory and bitter pill to swallow.

Yuuri now saw it truly was as Victor described. Yurio was sometimes painfully untangling the feelings of being admired - being the centre of attention - from the feelings of being loved. Yuuri felt a deep need to convey to the young prodigy that he really didn’t have to be the sun to be loved.

“Victor wouldn’t miss your birthday.” Yuuri said softly. “And I would like it very much if I could be there too.”

Yurio was back to avoiding his eyes; trying for nonchalant and prickly, but only succeeding at looking angular and vulnerable.

“Yeah whatever. Cool. Do what you want.”

Yuuri beamed at him. Unlike Victor, who would have probably toppled him over with a hug, it was enough for Yuuri to lay his hand gently on his shoulder in understanding.  

“Don’t forget to listen to the track.” Yurio said instead of a thank you. Yuuri was standing to leave.

“I will.” Yuuri replied seriously.

When he recounted all of this to Phichit later, Phichit told him that Victor would probably make a very good father. Yuuri nearly fell over backwards. Phichit smiled innocently at Yuuri’s flaming blush.

“You can’t seriously tell me that you haven’t been looking at Victor this whole time and _not_ thought to yourself ‘I want that man to have my babies.’” Phichit didn’t even need to wink for it to sound as suggestive as possible.

 Yuuri knew the heavens would rend and a singularity would form if Phichit and Christophe ever became friends.

“Phichit! That’s not what…I mean, well, I never...okay, _maybe_ but-” Yuuri spluttered.

Phichit laughed brightly.

“And you know I’ve always said you would be the most adorable dad, Yuuri!”

Yuuri wheezed.

“Gah, I... Phichit…!” he clutched at his chest. “We’re not even properly _married_ yet!”

Phichit paid him no heed.

“Can you just imagine a teeny tiny little Victor? _Yuuri_ they would be _so cute.”_

The image pierced him with singular clarity. Yuuri actually did fall off his chair this time. _Ohmygod_. He blushed so hotly he figured he could easily fry an egg on his face.

“Phichit stop! I’m going to have a heart attack.” Yuuri pleaded weakly, “How is the ice show planning coming?” he asked in an entirely transparent topic change.

Phichit let up his teasing, mercy of mercies. He had finally decided to turn the Ice show he been mulling over in his mind into a reality. It would probably not materialize that year; simply because Phichit still had his competitive career as his primary focus. He didn’t yet have the time and energy to pull it off in the way he envisioned. But he had dropped some enquiries to sponsors already, just to start feeling things out.

“I’m also thinking that I want to turn it into a global insta-meet.” He mused to Yuuri.

Yuuri told him it would probably be the best insta-meet Thailand had ever seen.

“And I’m thinking I need to find someone who wants to do costume design before my next Nationals.”

This whole process had Phichit truly alight with eagerness. Yuuri was just as excited on his behalf.

“Yuuri,” Phichit whispered conspiratorially, “What do you think of Hamster-shaped hats?”

Yurio’s party was surprisingly intimate. Yuuri whispered as much to Victor at some point that evening. Victor had said that it had always been the case. Just family, skaters, and a handful of friends. Already, most of those groups overlapped.

Yurio was at an awkward intersection; his school peers lived very different lives from his. People were either fans, or schmoozers who wanted his fame to rub off on them. Yuuri couldn’t help but hear the bitterness in Victor’s tone when he said as much. Yuuri had never had this unique kind of isolation; but it was evident that Victor had.

Yurio sat talking to Mila and a junior who’s name Yuuri had already forgotten. (Dimitri? Alexei?) His mother and Yakov were drinking together amiably. Next to them, Georgi and his grandfather Nikolai were locked in a serious philosophical discussion about the existence of True Love in this Cold World; one too many glances were thrown in Victor and Yuuri’s direction. Lilia was smoking outside while the only two other young teenagers gave her as wide a berth as possible. Otabek had even skyped in from Almaty when they had all sung happy birthday.

Yurio’s skating peers in the senior men’s division were mostly much older than him; he could never quite relate. Even Mila, closest in age and experience although a senior herself, had a life that wouldn’t quite sync with his. In fact, she was heading off to university this very year. His classmates in highschool were even further removed from his world. The few friends he had were other skaters who were still in the junior division, although he probably wouldn’t have held on to those relationships if they weren’t at the rink. Weather he had adapted to this, or he had preferred it from the get-go, Yurio was single-minded in his dedication; more than happy to be left alone. So Victor had told Yuuri sternly; ‘we must fill these gaps with family’.

They were gathering up plates and spoons to bring out into the living area. It was nearly time for cake.

“I can’t imagine growing up in a small family;” Yuuri had admitted, “With just my grandpa and my mom.”  

Victor’s eyes sparkled and he shook his head no.

“It’s not just those two, Yuuri, you forget.” They re-emerged into the living room with the crockery.

“He has Yakov, and Lilia. God knows Mila loves him as much as her own brother.” Victor looked Yuuri in the eye. “He has me…and now he has you.” Yuuri smiled at that, very much heartened, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.

“Do you see that, Popovitch?” Nikolai boomed at Georgi, “I want a fifty Rubles every time they kiss. “Your ‘love is dead’ nonsense, tcha.”

Victor smirked at them and saucily returned a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too.

It was only a week before Yurio’s 17th Birthday when Victor had gotten the call about his father’s death. Despite unfinished preparations, Yuuri had been half-expecting Victor to drop everything and curl into a ball. But he didn’t. He didn’t falter. His strangeness from the rink that day had evaporated by morning. If Yuuri didn’t know, he never would have guessed that anything had happened at all.

 Victor was bubbly and enthusiastic at practice; he double checked with Yurio that everyone he wanted to be there had been invited. He remembered to put in a cake order at the bakery. Even if Yurio insisted, every year, that he would have been fine doing nothing, Victor wouldn’t entertain the thought. He and Yuuri had agonised over what to get for an already wealthy and world-famous young skater that he didn’t already have. (The answer was plane tickets from Almaty for a visit from his best friend, Otabek.)

Yuuri watched as Victor busily organised, bought the groceries, and festooned Yakov’s house with decorations, and realised that he had no idea how Victor dealt with grief. Or any kind of loss at all. The lowest he had ever seen Victor was his crying at their first Grand Prix together, when Yuuri had asked to end things between them. And that had been remedied by the very next day. He was at a loss for what to do.

Grudgingly, Yuuri entertained the thought that this might just be Victor’s way of dealing with it. It didn’t sit right with him, not for a moment, but he needed to trust Victor. When he tried to nudge it out of him, Victor would unequivocally say he was fine. And yet; it didn’t seem like he had told anyone else about the death. Not even Yakov. Yuuri felt a strange stone in his stomach when he realised he didn’t even know Victor’s father’s name.

One evening, Victor had taken another call from the lawyer, Ivanov. Yuuri was immersed in a game of DotA. It was easy enough to play with the Russians when he could speak the language, after all.

He half caught what Victor had said on the phone. Something about something he didn’t want, a lot of muttering, a lot of firm and serious ‘yeses’, and something about charity? He brought his attention back to the game. Victor would tell him later.

It took him three days and a squabble before he told Yuuri anything, and Yuuri could not figure out why. When they turned in that night, Yuuri understood that he might have needed to keep his thoughts to himself; besides, it was late. Mornings were always frantic, so of course not, and Yuuri didn’t expect him to get into it while they were on the ice, either. But that evening came and went, and Victor said nothing. The following night he gave Yuuri a blowjob. Which, okay, was fantastic. But Yuuri had a sneaking suspicion that he was putting something in his mouth just to avoid talking. Honestly, the thought stung a little.

On the third day, Yuuri was fed up. He spent most of the day at Liilia’s ballet school. He knew he wouldn’t be able to live without a place to dance; and Yakov had very obligingly introduced him to Lilia after he had done a little asking around.  She was an uncompromising person, but she respected talent in dance unashamedly. Yuuri couldn’t quite understand how he had won her approval too, but won it he had. Like Yurio, he could practice in whatever room was free, as long as he liked. He was there often enough that most of the ballet dancers knew his face, and had started greeting him in the hallways.

Victor was on his way home, and Yuuri had danced his fill. Victor would detour past the studio, so they could go home together. He and Victor started towards home. With the noise of his worries quieted, Yuuri didn’t hesitate. It was time that they talked.

“So,the other day,” he began, “What did Mr. Ivanov phone to tell you?”

Victor dropped Yuuri’s hand from their hold.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Victor tried. As though he hadn’t just given himself away as obviously as possible.

It was the least convincing lie Yuuri had ever heard. He was flabbergasted. Oh; and suddenly rather angry.

“Really, Victor?” Yuuri snapped sarcastically. Victor whipped around at the tone; he looked just as angry as Yuuri.

“I don’t know what-”

“-I’m sick of being lied to.” Yuuri interrupted.

“Just because I don’t tell you every little thing doesn’t mean I’m lying to you.” Victor said cooly.

Yuuri shot him an incredulous glare. They lapsed into sour silence for the rest of the walk.

Victor headed for the bedroom the moment they walked in the door. Yuuri pulled on his headphones and booted up his laptop. After a short while Victor appeared, holding Makkachin’s leash.

“I’ll be back in 20 minutes.” He didn’t make eye-contact.

“Fine.” Replied Yuuri, just as churlish.

When Victor returned, Yuuri was taking a shower. Victor glanced at the wall-clock and started on supper.

Yuuri emerged, fresh and warm. It was a testament to Victor’s stubbornness that he didn’t go to kiss his fiancé’s glowing skin immediately.

Yuuri glanced over at the supper in process.

“…Can I help with the cooking?” It was strange to ask; he would normally just join in without a word. But things were still off-balance with them.

“Its fine, really, I’m nearly done.” Victor replied. He sounded like the shade of stone grey all the walls were painted:  Entirely soft, unreadably neutral.

Yuuri stood for another moment, then joined Makkachin on the couch, and picked up his novel from the side table.

Victor cooked methodically. In no time, he was turning off the heat. He put the lid on the pot. He wasn’t hungry. He felt stupid. He needed to talk to Yuuri. He flicked the kettle on and poured some green tea. He may not like it much, but Yuuri was more than partial to it. He sighed to himself, staring into space. He brought the tea over to Yuuri.

Yuuri hesitantly watched him set the cup down in front of him, and plop down onto the couch. Makkachin snorted happily between them.

“Tea.” Victor motioned to the cup and then to Yuuri. He sounded tired.

“Ah, thank you.” Yuuri replied, a little strained.

He sipped it and stared into Makka’s soft fur, where Victor was stroking absentmindedly.

The TV was off, and the lights were low. The twilight air smoothed everything over, like sweet water over dark stones.

“I’m sorry Yuuri,” he said at last.

Yuuri sighed. The awful rigidity between them loosened.

“I was being…ridiculous, earlier. “ Yuuri looked at him. Victor was staring at nothing. He looked far more miserable than this silly argument warranted.

Yuuri unfurled from his tightly wound sitting position. His anger had long since cooled to a silver puddle of regret.

“I…” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

He took a long drink of tea.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you, either.” He sighed.

Victor nodded.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” he said without fanfare, “you’re right. I was avoiding the topic.”

“You tried to distract me with sex.” Yuuri couldn’t help but say.

“Ah,” Victor huffed a laugh. “I did, didn’t I?”

Yuuri smiled wryly.

“Well it worked.” he said disgruntledly.

“But not for long.” Victor added, just a little bitterly.

Yuuri just watched him stroking Makkachin, and brought his hand up to settle in her fur as well. Victor tangled their fingers together. It was a relief. The apartment itself seemed to release its indrawn breath.

“Mr Ivanov called to tell me that my father left me his estate.” Victor said all at once, apparently talking only to Yuuri’s hand. “I guess there’s no one else to give it to.”

“Oh?” Yuuri said.

“Yeah.” Another sigh. “ It’s not much, but it’s not nothing.”

Yuuri tracked the darting of Victor’s tired eyes, and took in the sad sway of his fringe.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I told them I didn’t want it. To give it to charity. I don’t really care.”

“You can do that, right? I’m sure there’s no reason you would have to take it?”

Victor nodded; “I have to sign some things, but yes. That’s all I have to do.”

Yuuri stroked his thumb over Victor’s knuckles, over the shiny gold ring.

“Why couldn’t you just have said this three days ago, Victor?” Yuuri finally found his gaze again. “You shut me out. I was worried.”

Victor wilted in on himself, like a flower, or a frightened sea anemone.

“I wasn’t acting with any kind of logic.” Victor sighed bitterly. He shut his eyes in frustration, and pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. “Everything about this is just…harder than it should be.”

It was the first admission Victor had made about his feelings, about the death in general. Yuuri reached for him. Seeing Victor so lost made him feel a little bit lost too. Yuuri tugged and Victor flopped. Yuuri let Victor rest his head on his shoulder, and took hold of both of his hands. The fight had gone from them entirely. If Yuuri was tired, Victor was totally drained.

“Supper’s ready.”  Victor said after a while, making no move to get up.

Yuuri kissed the top of his head.

“Do you want to curl up here, and let me feed you, grain by grain?”  Yuuri said fondly.

Victor giggled and swiped the maudlin fug from his eyes.

“Since when is that even a kink of yours?" Victor asked with a smile.

“It is yours,” Yuuri shot back.

“Yes, _I’m_ supposed to be the one feeding _you.”_ Victor feigned a long-suffering sigh.

Yuuri relaxed at the comforting sound of playful Victor. They slept well that night, with a weight off of both their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So each chapter is getting longer and longer. I was up to 4000 words and decided to just chuck a huge chunk of it into the next chapter. So next update will be Yurio's birthday pt. 2.
> 
> I'm sort of in a rhythm of updating on Wednesday and Sunday- so I'm gonna try my best to stick to that. Let me know how you liked this chapter. <3 
> 
>  
> 
> [ follow me i guess?](http://rubyjooce.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor has feelings. He talks to people about them. Lots of emote.
> 
> special guest for this chapter: texting with emojis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhhh, I'm trash? I'm really sorry it took this long to update. I rewrote this chapter three times; and still have not managed to get to Yurio's birthday party. Yikes. Anyway, thank you for sticking with this fic. Please grab a blanket or something because not only did I wait 10 years to update, I also decided to give you a wompy-womp cry cry chapter. I reaaaallly earned the hurt/comfort tag in this one. sooo enjoy...? :)
> 
>  
> 
> tw: child abuse mention

  
Through the busy days of training and organizing Yuri’s 17th birthday party, Victor hardens himself like that mutant from the X-men that can turn herself into diamond. He shines brightly and shoves away anything uncomfortable. He’s always liked the idea of that superpower, a kind of invincibility that had nothing to do with brute strength. If he could turn into diamond, everything sharp and painful would rebound right off of him. He would be pretty, precious, and nothing would ever hurt him. He thinks about it as he releases his bruised feet from his skates, gazing at the mottling that stands as evidence of his vulnerable body. _My whole career- no- my whole life thus far has been about making myself as hard as possible. Look at how happy that made me_. He thinks sarcastically. He’s been over it a million times with licensed professionals; he knows that he has it upside-down. When he lets himself be vulnerable, that’s when he conquers the hurt. _I don’t need to make myself hard anymore._ He tells himself intently, rubbing arnica-gel into his feet on the locker-room bench. He hates that he is nearing his thirties and still has to repeat this to himself. He inspects the raw patches and reminds himself that his age has no bearing on his progress.

Victor doesn't like to think about it, but it intrudes anyway. _“Just because I don’t tell you every little thing doesn’t mean I’m lying to you.”_ He had said that. To Yuuri. And even days past the fight, it sounded terribly empty and defensive. He picks at the thought like the fragile skin of a half-healed scab. There’s strange fascination with whatever is underneath. Is it pink skin, or will it bleed? It's a foolish question to ask himself. He knows he’s still bleeding. His own angry words pierced him more than he thought they would, more than he knew when he said them. It’s a feeling he had only later in life gotten better at placing; guilt. It wasn’t that what he was saying was incorrect in a general, abstract sense; but to claim so would be facetious. The crux of it was that he felt like a liar.

He realises he is sitting and staring off into space. If this were Yuuri, he would interrupt this kind of wallowing, he wouldn’t want him building up a list of self-recriminations, he would let him voice his fears and validate his feelings. _You can do that for yourself._ Victor pulls some clean socks on and gets to his feet. His phone is in his hand and he’s typing out a message before he can think himself out of it.

 _“Chris”_ he sends. He sends another right after it.  
_“I’m being ridiculous”_  
He starts typing a third message. _“I need…”_  
He stops, staring at the words. _“I need help”_ He types. He deletes it. _“I need to talk to you”_ He deletes that too. He rolls his eyes at himself, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _My father died, can you call me?”_ Jesus no, he deletes that fast. Chris would get worried and start jumping to conclusions.  
_“Let me know when you can talk?”_ and a kissy-face emoji.  
He sends it, and shoves his phone in his pocket, feeling self-conscious.

The response comes a few minutes later.  
_“Darling!”_ And a return kissy-face emoji.  
_“Let me call you when I get home”_  
The time difference between them is only about an hour or two. Victor smiles, and sends him a “ _Great_ ” in return.

It's Friday afternoon, and Yuri’s birthday party is the next day. Victor decided to run a bath to unwind. Yuuri wasn’t home yet, he had messaged to say that Yakov had co-opted him into a game of backgammon at the local dive. Yakov had demanded Yuuri learn the year before, as soon as he had discovered that Yuuri couldn’t play. Apparently it was unconscionable for a man living in Russia and planning on marrying a Russian to not be able to hold his own. Never mind that Victor, a Russian born and bred, had never bothered to learn it.  
“What will you do when you’re my age and that upstart (meaning Victor) can’t entertain you anymore, eh?” Yakov had roared at Yuuri.  
“No questions, Yura. I am teaching you.”  
So had begun their frequent tournaments.

Victor pictured the smoky pub with patrons who all looked like Yakov and grunted like Yakov, and his Yuuri wedged behind a table among them, his fiercely competitive game-face on. Victor laughed out loud and replied with about ten red heart emojis and a coy picture of himself in the bath, sipping a glass of white wine.

The lights were dim and the last of a lavender bath bomb was fizzing around his knees when Chris’ caller ID lit up his screen.

"Hey Chris.”  
“Victor,” Chris said in his usual delighted purr. “What’s cooking, good looking?”  
Victor laughed. It was so good to hear his friend’s voice. He quickly switched to French for his Swiss friend.  
“Training, coaching; the usual.” Victor said offhandedly. “I’ve been thinking of using that concerto I gave up on for Yuuri’s free program next season. I think he can pull off the serious energy better than I could.”  
“Mmhmm.” Said Chris.  
“How’s Mathieu?”  
“Oh he’s just delightful,” Chris teased “No, but, really he’s doing fine; the hip surgery went well and he’s already chomping at the bit to get back to his skiing.”  
Victor laughed again.  
“Don’t let him out of bed too soon.”  
“I don’t plan on letting him out of bed _ever_.” Chris smirked.  
Victor huffed and tipped his head back against the bathtub amusedly. He could hear Chris adjusting the phone on the other end.  
“So Victor, dearest, what do we need to talk about, hmm?”  
Victor shut his eyes with a sigh.  
“Chris…I.” he sighed again. There was a long silence.  
“Oh goodness, this is serious.” Chris dropped some of the playfulness from his voice.  
“Is Yuuri…?”  
“No, no, Yuuri is fine! Really, it’s not him. It’s not anyone.” Victor stared at the silver faucets of the bathtub.  
Chris waited.  
“It’s me.” Victor paused, “I’m just…I’m feeling…um... something…you know?”  
Chris did know.  
“What kind of something, _Cheri_?”  
Victor knew it would be better to just come out with it now. Otherwise Chris would just be groping around in the dark with Victor’s vague half-sentences.  
“My father died a few days ago.”  
Chris hissed sharply, but waited for Victor to go on.  
“I’ve told Yuuri, of course but I…” He fidgeted. “There’s still a lot I haven’t told Yuuri.”  
“…about your parents, you mean?”  
“Yes.”  
“Take your time, Victor.” Chris said gently. “Yuuri is a patient man; I know by now he doesn’t begrudge you this.”  
“I feel terrible keeping this from him, Chris.” Victor admitted. “I feel like I’m lying.”  
“You feel guilty because, for whatever reason, you think when he sees these parts of you, he will leave you?”  
“…”  
“Bingo.”  
“I know that it’s not the case. I know this. But-“  
“But knowing and believing are very different things, not so?”  
“Mm.” Victor nodded.  
“And this isn’t really about what Yuuri thinks of Victor, is it? Maybe it’s more about what Victor thinks of Victor?”  
“Ugh.” Victor pressed his hand to his eyes.  
“And I still haven’t told him much about, well...”  
Chris hummed pensively.  
“Victor, he can’t support you if he hasn’t got an idea of what you’re up against.”  
“I know Chris. And I want to share this with him. I just…”  
“Yeah…?”  
“I liked the Victor who didn’t have that past. I liked living without it dragging me back all the time. It felt like I could be the very best of myself, like none of it happened at all.”  
“Oh my dear.” Chris sounded terribly sad. “That Victor and this Victor are one and the same. You’re still the very best of yourself, with ‘everything that happened’ included.”  
Victor blinked around stinging eyes.  
“Chris thank you.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry”  
Chris made gentle shushing noises.  
“Come now, there’s nothing to be sorry for here. Remember once I called you drunkenly because I thought I was pregnant?”  
Victor burst out laughing at the memory.  
“Oh god! Chris, how could I forget?” Victor cackled.  
_“Ooh Victor!”_ he mimicked to Chris, _“He fucked me so hard! I swear that this man has defied biology! How will I give birth to my ass-baby?”_  
Chris was laughing as well.  
“Come to think of it, wasn’t that the first time between you and Mathieu…?”  
“It was indeed.” Chris giggled.  
“Oh my goodness, that long ago already?”  
“It really is that long ago.”  
Victor smiled softly at the thought of just how long they had been friends for. Soon he rang off, promising to let Chris know how he was doing in the next few days. They exchanged greetings for each other’s partners, and Victor tossed his phone off to the side so he could relax back into the bath.

Victor felt much better about everything after the phonecall. By the time Yuuri got home, having won three of the five backgammon matches, Victor was ready. Even though he still felt anxious, he wanted very much to try and articulate his feelings.

Yuuri was feeling grabby, probably because Victor was warm and fragrant from the bath, and walking around in just his shorts.  
Yuuri stripped his layers off, even as his eyes stayed affixed to Victor’s ass. Victor glanced over his shoulder and winked. Yuuri’s eyes flashed.  
“Those are mine.” Yuuri intoned.  
“What?” Victor glanced down.  
“You’re wearing my underwear.” Yuuri’s tongue darted out to swipe at his lips.  
“Oh. So I am.” He looked back up at Yuuri with an innocent grin.  
Yuuri traced fingers up Victor’s bare back and trailed down his side. Yuuri shoved his glasses up onto his head and pressed Victor close, breathing in the clean scent and the lavender. Victor brought their lips together and Yuuri kissed him deeply. When they ripped apart, chests heaving, Victor licked his lips.  
“You taste like…hmmm” He grinned, and leaned in to exaggeratedly lick more of the taste from Yuuri’s mouth.  
“You taste like rakija.”  
“Mmm.” Yuuri chased Victor’s mouth with his, “Had a glass with Yakov. I’m not sure I like it, but we drink it every time.”  
Victor helped peel off Yuuri’s shirt and trousers and pulled him down to their bed. But once he had Yuuri plastered up against his skin, he forgot about kissing him; instead getting lost in the sensation of Yuuri’s arms strong across his back, encircling him entirely. He turned his face to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder, just breathing. Yuuri left off kissing to nuzzle into Victor’s neck. After a few moments, Yuuri made to pull back and adjust; they weren’t entirely on the bed yet. But Victor wouldn’t let him shift, just tightened his arms and burrowed deeper into the cuddle. Their ardour slowed and their breathing synchronized.

“Victor…?” Yuuri stroked up Victor’s back to bury his fingers in the hair at the nape of Victor’s neck. He tried to get a look at his fiancé’s face. With horror, Yuuri realized that Victor was crying. Just like at their first Grand Prix final, his tears streamed silently and freely. Yuuri’s stomach lurched in panic.

“Victor! What…?” Victor didn’t reply.

This time he did pull out of Victors hold. Victor just blinked up at him, his crystal-clear tears dripping down the corners of his eyes and clinging to his lashes. He curled lamely in on himself, not even bothering to swipe at his face. Yuuri stared in shock, but recovered himself. He hurriedly pulled open the bedclothes and turned to guide Victor in between the sheets. He climbed in next to him and took Victor’s hand in his. Yuuri opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He reached behind him to pull up on of their discarded shirts and bunched up a section in between his fingers to daub at the tear tracks on Victor’s cheeks.  
Victor choked out a laugh at the ineffectual patting. He shakily took the shirt from Yuuri and wiped his eyes properly. Yuuri stroked his hair.  
“Can I hold you?” Yuuri asked tentatively.  
“Please.” Victor trembled.  
Yuuri cradled him to his chest tightly, curling as the big spoon around him. Victor pressed back, revelling in all the skin contact.

“I’m surprised, I’m not sure why I’m crying.” Victor mumbled.  
Yuuri wisely didn’t ask if it was related to his father’s death. He figured it probably wasn’t as cut-and-dried as that.  
“I spoke to Chris,” Victor continued, “and he was lovely. I was feeling so good. I was ready to talk to you. I was feeling _so good_.” He trailed off miserably.  
“Ready to talk to me…? Victor what do you mean?” Yuuri furrowed his brow; was this something to do with their fight?  
“Victor…the other day,” Yuuri voiced, “We sorted that out. You did tell me what was going on.”  
Victor nodded. He cleared his throat.  
“What I mean is…It’s…” His voice steadied. “I’ve never really given you the full story about…about my family. About the past.”  
Yuuri stilled.  
“Victor,” he took a deep breath. He dug deep. “I want to know, of course I do but-”  
A sob shook through Victor, Yuuri’s heart spasmed. He swallowed hard on his own tears.  
“But if it huts you I don’t care. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”  
Victor turned over to look Yuuri in the eye.  
“But I _do_ want to.” He whispered. Yuuri didn’t break eye contact; Victor felt like he couldn’t look away. His voice was low and dejected.  
“I just…”  
Yuuri waited.  
“But I’m…Yuuri, I… I can’t remember everything and I can’t explain a lot of it; …sometimes it’s not…” Victor died off. He began again, so soft and gravelly that Yuuri held his breath. “…what if you don’t believe me…?”  
Yuuri’s heart was in his throat. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tuck Victor inside his own body. His voice came out surprisingly strong and calm.  
“Did they hurt you, Victor? Your…family? Your father?”  
Victor closed his eyes and a fresh wave of tears spilled over. He nodded once.  
“Vitya,” Yuuri was shaking but he squeezed Victor tighter.  
“I believe you, I believe you.”  
Victor pushed away gently.  
“But Yuuri, it’s…complicated. They…he…no one ever beat me, or even hit me; so it’s not-it’s not so-“  
“Victor, no. Don’t you dare say it ‘wasn’t so bad’- don’t you _dare_ -“Yuuri choked, and now he was crying too. He rubbed at his face angrily.

They got a hold of themselves after a little while. Yuuri let a whining Makkachin in at the door, and she filled the space in the bed while Yuuri went to fetch headache tablets and herbal tea for the both of them. They abandoned words for the rest of the night; both favouring the explicit language of gentle touches. They would have spent the whole night in quiet tenderness, but the crying and emotions had exhausted them, and very soon they were asleep in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally self indulgent! Yikes :P I had to amp up the fluff for my own benefit there. At least they cuddling, right?
> 
> Also, Mathieu is the name I've seen around for Chris' mystery boyf who we only get to see for 0.5 seconds. I love him.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry not updating for literal months! I got uh...distracted??? Real life can be a lot. BUT I'M BACK. I like this story far too much to not finish it. Thank you so much to everyone who has liked and commented so far. Reading your comments makes me beyond happy.

Yuuri had been anxious the whole week since Yuri’s birthday party. Although it had been a wonderful party. Everyone except Otabek knew exactly who Yuri was in love with. Victor and Yuuri supervised the alcohol by making sure they drank most, if not all of it, themselves. Yuuri thought the cloud had passed. Victor had made terse phone calls. He told Yuuri his father’s affairs had been tied up, the state was burying him. Yuuri hadn’t asked where. On a Tuesday they had gone to the lawyer’s office, so that Victor could provide his signature. It was done with. He hadn’t cried again.

But Victor was off. If Victor hadn’t broken down that night in his arms, Yuuri wasn’t sure if he would have been aware of it at all. The thought frightened him. He was supposed to be the person to whom Victor didn’t have to pretend. Since those first days in Hasetsu, where Yuuri had asked Victor to simply be himself.

 Victor was focussed on his training, and advising Yuuri with the usual hawkeyed precision. He bumped gentle elbows hanging the laundry with Yuuri. He sat for hours listening to music demos, invested in their programs and considering the virtues of each piece like the connoisseur he was. This was usual Victor; Victor at full throttle.

Yuuri mulled it over in his mind as he played video games. Victor was training as hard as ever, nailing his jumps, working his program over and over until it was muscle memory. But the thought struck Yuuri that it was like Victor had been replaced with an extremely lifelike automaton. The thought made him feel immediately guilty. They were over a full year into their relationship, and Yuuri was feeling wrong-footed in a way he hadn’t since the very beginning. He mashed the keys hard, focussing on the bursts of light and blood on his computer screen. He was being insecure because Victor wasn’t leaning on him, and he hated feeling ignorant about something as intimate as his grief. The self-chastisement didn’t do anything to allay his doubts. The thoughts ate at him. Was their closeness Yuuri’s imagination? If Victor was keeping his emotional distance, how sincerely did he love Yuuri? How deeply did he trust Yuuri? Why couldn’t he let him in? He hated this spiralling overthinking. The cruelties of his insecurities lurked in Yuuri’s mind. He lost the DotA match.

Victor wasn’t at Yuri’s birthday party. Sure, his body attended.  He clapped and laughed and sang in the right places. He smiled and ate and held Yuuri by the waist. But that was autopilot. Like a cosmonaut whose umbilical safety-cord had been cut, Victor drifted in an airless, soundless void.

Yuri was happy, at least. Seventeen felt so very different from sixteen. And Otabek was there looking rugged and dashing. Spying on them from the corner of his eye, Yuuri smirked relentlessly at the pair the whole night. For those two, the writing was on the wall. In his opinion it was only a matter of time.

Victor and Yuuri crawled home in the small hours of the morning. Victor felt a little better. He was warm with vodka, and Yuuri was startlingly pretty in the moonlight. Victor privately vowed to do better. He had his wobble, but he would stick the landing. He was filled with determination. He could put it behind him. His father was dead, and good riddance. He had his future, his Yuuri. He wanted to eventually get round to planning their wedding. He wanted to be up against Yuuri and Yuri for one more competitive season. The air was bracing, and he felt so strong. He hummed along to an old drinking song, and Yuuri chuckled into his scarf.

Yuuri was relieved at the feel of Victor’s kisses. This was his Victor – a mischievous kisser with a tender gaze. Stripping each other lazily grounded Yuuri. Victor rolled him over to take control. Their clothes were long gone and Yuuri’s glasses with them. Victor locked his gaze with Yuuri’s as he flicked the tip of his tongue along the slit of Yuuri’s hard cock. He enveloped the shaft, and sucked harder when Yuuri cried out. Yuuri refused to come like that, dragging Victor mercilessly back up to his mouth for kisses. He manhandled Victor’s body, pressing one knee up to give his questing fingers access to Victor’s hole. Victor moaned in triumph as Yuuri fingered him. Yuuri gazed into his eyes, panting hard. Victor wanted to live in that look forever- with Yuuri inside him, around him. Yuuri finally guided himself inside Victor. Yuuri felt huge at this angle. Victor’s cock was trapped between them, streaking wetly across Yuuri’s abs. Yuuri bottomed out, his free hand toying with Victor’s stretched rim. Wetness sprung to Victor’s eyes but Yuuri didn’t pause. Victor’s tears of pleasure were an achievement that Yuuri pursued relentlessly. Victor undulated powerfully, rolling up to Yuuri’s chest, then back onto his length. Yuuri kept Victor there, forced his undivided attention by biting and tugging and stroking, as they fucked almost desperately. Yuuri never wanted it to end; but in the afterglow, he thought there could be no better feeling than Victor’s sated kisses, and Victor’s gentle hands trailing over his back, caressing him to sleep.

Victor knew very well that there was something incredibly soothing about being a tireless professional athlete. Perhaps it was the routine, or the training regimen, or the insatiable feeling of closing in on his goals. Even if getting up and out of bed was agonizing, he did it daily. He _had_ to do it. The feeling was less of a drive and more of a need. It wasn’t like he imagined the podium, or medals draped over his neck. It wasn’t even the promise of prize money or the renewed influx of sponsorship offers and endorsement deals. As much as he loved making his fans happy, it wasn’t them that kept him going either. He wanted to be the best he could possibly be. Victor watched Yuuri warming up with deep lunges. He had set up his mat off the side of the rink. He and Yuuri were most similar in this way. It was a picture of themselves, an idea of who and where they wanted to be that lit a fire beneath their heels. 

Victor thought of his choreography for the following season with excitement and trepidation. Worlds meant the current season was nearly up. It would be the World Team Trophy, and after that it was the off season. This season he had recycled his old programs in order to be ready in a pinch. He had rode on his laurels in terms of creativity, and he knew he could do better. But the thrill of competing against Yuuri at Worlds was distracting. He needed to give it his all, show his partner a worthy skate. He wanted to sing his love on the ice, yes, but it was something more than that. He wanted to show the world what Yuuri helped him become. He needed Yuuri to see him tell thier competitors, Yakov, his fans, the whole world of skating, that Victor couldn’t have become the person he was now, alone. Yuuri was lacing up, his hair flopping adorably into his eyes, and Victor had to tuck his thoughts away for a different moment. It was time to slip back into coach-mode.   

Things were difficult at first, because they had been out of sync. It had taken a few days of frustration on the ice, Yuuri sometimes being too concerned for Victor to fully focus on his program. Or Victor being locked too deeply inside himself to give his all to Yuuri. The distance that Victor had forced between them while he dealt with his father’s affairs had finally buckled. They were back to their intimacies, and it was revitalizing to Victor.  

He absolutely revelled in affection, and he chastised himself for being so contrary. At home that night, Victor resumed a task that had been his favourite back in Hasetsu: combing Yuuri’s hair. He hadn’t done it in a while.  

Yuuri slouched on one of their kitchen chairs and Victor stood behind him. A myriad of hair products were lined up on the counter next to him. Yuuri sighed heavily as Victor caressed his scalp, gently running his fingers through the black strands before he used a comb. Yuuri’s hair had grown out again since his last haircut. It was long enough now to tie into a small ponytail. Victor had late-night visions of Yuuri skating, hair free from hair-ties and ISU regulations, streaming wildly around him. His heart stuttered. He squirted some growth hormone onto his palms and rubbed it vigorously into Yuuri’s locks. Yuuri kept mumbling out his appreciation, eyes closed. He seemed tired to Victor, more so than a day of training would merit.  

“Did you manage to contact Mizuno today?” Victor queried.

 A frown flittered over Yuuri’s brow.

“They came back with a better offer.” He still sounded unsure. “Now I need to wait to hear back from Asics.”

“Oh?” Victor encouraged.

Yuuri mumbled under his breath. Victor combed through his hair patiently.

“I should probably wait.” Yuuri whined. “If they come back with a counter-offer I can try and bounce that off of Mizuno.”

“That certainly sounds like a good plan.” Victor volunteered.

Yuuri nodded, but shifted unhappily.

“I’m just so tired of waiting!” he burst out grumpily, “Victor…This part of skating is so exhausting.”

Victor chuckled.

“You could hire someone to do this for you, Yuuri.”

It was something he’d said before, but he wasn’t seriously suggesting it.

“I have a business degree! I should be able to do this myself.” Yuuri pouted.

Victor kissed Yuuri’s ear, and the other man blushed at the unexpected feeling.

“You’ve always been so independent.  I love that part of you, Yuuri.”

“Victor,” Yuuri complained, “It’s just that I like relying on myself.”

 Yuuri tilted his head up, looking at Victor from upside-down. Victor held his cheeks between his hands and kissed his forehead. Yuuri blushed again.

“Whichever you choose, this is a huge endorsement deal.” Victor smiled and switched to Japanese, “ _Congratulations_ Yuuri.”

Yuuri harrumphed and faced forward again, nevertheless pleased with himself. 

“ _Thank you_ Victor.”  Yuuri replied, also in Japanese.  

Truthfully, Victor admired Yuuri’s financial acuity. Most athletes of Yuuri’s calibre- national champions, international medal holders – had teams of people helping to manage everything from sponsors to physical fitness. Yuuri had a bare minimum.  Part of it was actively working to keep costs down, and part of it was the voice of insecurity, telling him that he was merely a dime-a-dozen skater, and that his excellence was more luck than skill.  With a deal like the one he was currently negotiating, Yuuri could bank on pulling a six-figure sum. This was the threshold, where skating finally became a profitable career. Victor mulled over the idea of getting Yuuri into producing ice shows. Maybe when Phichit’s show had taken off, then Yuuri would consider it seriously.

 Victor finished with Yuuri’s hair, and returned the products and comb and towel to their bathroom. He heard his phone ringing in the kitchen. 

“Oh, it’s Chris…”  Yuuri called, “I’ll get it.”

Victor listened to Yuuri exchanging pleasantries with Chris as he finished washing up. Their voices grew louder. Yuuri was waiting outside the bathroom to pass him the phone. 

“ _Salut,_ Victor.” Chris greeted. 

“Hi Chris.” Victor replied as he mouthed his thanks to Yuuri. 

“I’m impressed that Yuuri can read my name in Cyrillic.”

Victor laughed.

“I think he’d recognise your number before recognizing the letters, but yes, his Russian is excellent.”

“Living in Russia with a Russian fiancé would do that to a man, I suppose.” Chris quipped.

“Jealous, Chris?” Victor teased.

“Of which one of you?” Chris teased back.

Victor shook his head at his friend.

“Anyway,” Chris began, “I don’t want to keep you long. I had an idea, thought I’d run it past you and Yuuri.”

“Oh?” Victor asked.

“Worlds is in my town this year, you know.”

“Oh yes?” Victor replied eagerly.

“You and Yuuri should come spend some time.”

“Chris that’s a fantastic idea! I’m sure Yuuri would be delighted.”

 Victor sought out Yuuri. He was relaxing on their bed with Makka.

“I know it’s a bit close to the Team Trophy.” Chris said apologetically.

“No no, I can spare a few days. It would be good to take some time.”

“Mmm. Chris said sincerely, “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’ll talk it over with Yuuri and get back to you, okay?” Victor intoned.

Yuuri perked up at his name.

“Of course. Until then, Victor”

“Bye Chris.” Victor sang, then rang off.

 

Victor turned to Yuuri, who was waiting with open curiosity.

“Holiday with Chris in Switzerland, my love?”

Yuuri brightened.

“Holiday with Chris in Switzerland.” He confirmed merrily.

Makka barked in agreement too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the timeline: I am totally unclear about how this timeline is supposed to work, so I’m hedging all the dates and mapping everything as best I can to the actual figure skating season timelines. I’ve decided to keep the exact years out of it. IRL The next World Team Trophy is in 2019. Anyway! I just wanted one there to be one other competition after Worlds for the story. 
> 
> Please do leave comments if you liked it! I absolutely live for feedback. What do you think of their upcoming holiday with Chris? Despite my other work, there's no threesome up ahead...sorry Chris ;)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO CHAPTER SIX! I'm excited about this one. Heed the tags tho. That past child abuse one is for real.

 

There had been surprisingly little discussion about moving in together. The ‘where’s and ‘how’s were a matter of logistics, but that they would be together was certain. Skating at their respective nationals – a separation of just over two weeks - had been the longest time apart they had endured since Victor had bulldozed glamorously into Yuuri’s sleepy hometown. Yuuri was shocked to realize that enduring it without the promise of settling together might have crushed Victor. If the way he had cried at Yuuri’s attempted break-up at the grand prix was anything to go by. Back then, Yuuri had let himself be swallowed in self-doubt, insecurities crowding out that sensible voice that pleaded with him to communicate his fears. He knew he had let that idea of himself, the picture of a pathetic, failed skater, with no redeeming qualities beyond the questionable talent of being able to panic on-demand, trample all over both of their hearts. It was a surprise, knowing he wanted to push through that fog to protect Victor. It was the opposite of the usual negative spiral. Sometimes, trying to do so for his own sake backfired. _So what if my insecurities and my anxieties leave me upset and isolated? I deserve as much for being so utterly useless. Unable to even motivate myself out of a paper bag._ But knowing that Victor would be hurt, deeply, if he acted on those thoughts, made it easier to get a hold on them.

Yuuri pinched the flap of a cardboard box, dragged it across the floor towards the bookcase, and hauled it up onto a chair. _Macroeconomics_ , 6th Edition stared up at him. He glared at it, albeit fondly. He mopped at the persistent sweat on his forehead, thinking of what a complete idiot he was for packing the book box to the very brim. It was so heavy that he had nearly popped his shoulders out when he tried to lift it.

He resumed neatly stacking them onto the slate grey shelves.  He owned fewer books than he felt he ought to; and he had been quietly impressed at Victor’s collection. It was a collection that bore out a long life of relative solitude. Yuuri had once heard a classmate say that being an avid reader was the mark of a lonely child. Disgruntlement passed over his features; what kind of awful saying was that? His fiancé entered the room just then, kneeling next to the box to help unpack. Yuuri’s heart stuttered. Victor. The force of nature who had taken his whole town by storm, the artist he had revered since forever, the man who had cried for him when he landed a quadruple flip. His fiancé, kneeling beside him as they unpacked his boxes. His books going onto Victor’s shelves. No wait, their shelves. My god. This was real. This was his _life._  

Victor’s gorgeous fringe flopped over his gorgeous eyes. Yuuri felt a little light headed. He took in the well-worn spines already lining the shelves.

“You have a lot of books!” Yuuri blurted out, his anxious mouth’s attempt at starting a conversation, he supposed. Victor turned to him slowly, a wry grin on his face and two books in his hands.

“Surprised?”  Victor asked drily.

Yuuri sucked in a breath and blushed.

“No! That’s not it at all! I um, that is…” Yuuri trailed off, embarrassed.

Victor caught his eye and smirked.

“Yuuuri! What do you think of me?” Victor bemoaned exaggeratedly, posing as if wounded.

Yuuri rolled his eyes but smiled.

 “They’re just for show, Yuuri. Jay Gatsby’s bookcase. Who knows if I can even read?” He teased dramatically and with relish. He had his eyes shut for dramatic effect, but peeped one open to take a lopsided look at Yuuri’s blushing, grinning face.

Yuuri burst into laughter, swatting at Victor with a green paperback. Victor loved making him laugh, even if just for a moment. He was so high on Yuuri; euphoric. He knew he was being ridiculous. And So what? No one was here to stop him.

“Victor, oh my god.” Yuuri protested weakly.

Victor affected an offended sniff and righted himself, barely quashing his giggles.

“I love you.” Yuuri gushed without thinking. His eyes alight with tenderness.

Victor blushed hotly and immediately. It certainly wasn’t the first time Yuuri had said so, not by a long shot. But Victor could never hear those words and remain unmoved. His world had shifted seismically.

“I love you too, Yuuri.” He whispered it. Too soft and too serious for their light-hearted exchange.

This ultra-modern apartment, a fortress of acetic solitude, Spartan décor and matching lifestyle, was being loved back to life, just as he had been. Yuuri’s colourful textbooks, his newly installed household shrine, his laugh, and his beautiful smile were filling his chrome-and-white existence with colour. Yuuri was here, really here, sharing his home and his life. It took Victor’s breath away.

Yuuri leaned forwards and stroked Victor’s hair off his face. Victor leaned forwards and kissed him sweetly.  

It had already been more than a year since then. Now they were facing their second World Championships together, with Victor as both coach and competitor.

Yuuri and Victor woke with only fourteen days to go. The time was going faster and faster. The energy at the rink was electric. Everyone had gotten into high-gear seemingly overnight. Mila was working a quad into her program for the first time. Yurio was angry at his legs, which apparently wouldn’t stop growing long enough for him to buy new clothing or land his jumps consistently.  Yakov was threatening retirement every hour on the hour.      

Yuuri did up the velcro of his skating gloves and flexed his fingers. His sponsorship deal had eventually been settled. Mizuno had offered him a very tidy sum, and he had happily signed off, glad to be done with it. Victor tapped at his small notepad with the back of his mechanical pencil. Rewritten for the umpteenth time was Yuuri’s short program composition, in Victor’s neat, boxy, script. The quadruple flip, right at the back end of the program, sat unobtrusively before the final choreographic sequence.

Yuuri had the music for his short program lilting though his earbuds as he warmed up on the ice, nipping here and there through his favourite step sequence components. The song dripped and draped its notes, one of the most watery pieces he’d chosen for a program. He waited for the moody build before taking off in a relaxed double axel, landing without a hitch. His theme this season was, of course, _home._ The song pulled in contrary directions- the fullness of an orchestra building on a fragile piano. Home was a contrary thing for him, after all. The nostalgia for Hasetsu, his family, and his quiet hours at Minako’s shone through the first half to anyone with eyes. Victor loved the grace of this song, and choreographed with weightlessness in mind. Yuuri switched legs in the midst of a spin. Tiny sprays of ice glinted around his boots. He had struggled the most with that image of lightness, seeing a piglet with wings attached to it, instead of a figure skater. The song ended stronger than it started, and Yuuri thought of the kind of home it was supposed to suggest- not a childhood memory, or the confusing, often chaotic, years in America – a feeling of safety and security.   _What am I really saying with my theme?_ Yuuri’s probed as he slowed down to begin with Victor in earnest. _Is it honestly something as cheesy as “home is where the heart is?”_

“Okay, Yuuri!” Victor called, seeing Yuuri was ready.

Yuuri plucked the earbuds from his ears, and tossed them into Victor’s waiting hands.

“I want all the jumps, no cheating.” Victor smiled his wide, heart-shaped smile. Yuuri replied with a single determined nod.

Yuuri folded over, his body curled in on himself, and slowly unfurled from his starting position.

“Exactly, Yuuri!” called Victor, “Like you’re waking up for the first time!”

Yuuri circled wide, grasping the one moment, longing etched on his face, and leaning away the next, in pantomimed frustration. The music in his head built, and he launched from a pretty spin into a lone triple salchow.

Watching with his finger pressed to his lips in thought, Victor took in the story Yuuri was dancing. His body told one side of it: love and dedication, confusion and strength, and his eyes told the other: loss after loss, unmoored and searching. But then – joy and discovery and his own changing self-concept.

“Watch your inside leg!” Victor reminded. _Yes!_ Victor’s eyes gleamed. _Backwards, crossover, Hop! Hop! One, two…_ Yuuri’s footwork was a thing of beauty. Although he was still so unconvinced of his ability to show off delicacy. _Oh there it is!_ Yuuri’s Ina Bauer. His back was arched just right. His leg extended in a beautiful line. Masterful. There was a particular loveliness to Yuuri in his training clothes: tight and black. But Victor could picture the effect of his new shimmering silver-white costume, with simple stage make-up. It would be easy to forget it was a human man in front of them. The whole audience would cry. Victor would most _definitely_ cry.

Yuuri pounded out his last quad combination. And it was certainly pounded, losing his swan-like ease with a less-than perfect landing.  Yuuri spun towards the central point, returning to a quiet end-pose, arms crossed behind him like wings.  Victor clapped for him.

Yuuri carved a path back to Victor. Handing Yuuri a sweat towel and water bottle, he launched into his praise and criticism. Yuuri drank deeply and mopped at his sweaty hair. It was long enough to tie into a little ponytail behind his ears. Soon enough they were back to work.

In this charged atmosphere Yuuri wisely chose to take longer hours at the ballet studio, working out his anxious energy before it could take root.

Victor started cleaning at odd hours, when he had too much energy but couldn’t physically push himself. He had always struggled to rest, and managed to justify his down time with hours of Japanese language learning videos on Youtube.

They have even more sex than usual.

The flashback comes without warning. For this reason it hits Victor like a blow. It’s nonsensical. Victor is simply walking though the gym’s corridor. There is nothing particular to remind him of his father. The walls aren’t blue, like carpet in his memory. There is no one passing by with any resemblance to his father. The corridor is off-white and the tiles are as nondescript as they have ever been. He must have treaded the same path thousands of times in his life. And he is happy. His mood buoyed with the excitement of the upcoming competition and his mind occupied with adjustments to both his and Yuuri’s programs. But none of that matters one iota. In a second he is a boy again.  He’s standing in his father’s study, and it’s a Monday evening.

Victor knows this carpet. He could draw the teardrop-shaped curlicues with his eyes closed. It’s a plush, expensive carpet, and he attaches every ounce of focus he has into feeling the pile beneath his bare feet. He kicked his shoes off when he arrived home, needing the air to cool his skate-sore feet. The carpet is soft and forgiving. He stares down at it. He retraces the pattern. He needs this pattern. He needs it. If he can’t keep his focus on this, he’ll hear whatever it is his father is saying. If that membrane around his thoughts is broken… He has no idea what would happen, but the idea shoots fear and nausea through his small frame. He refuses to tremble. He knows the main, background colour of the carpet is beige.  The outlines of the paisleys are marked in thick black. There’s a pale grey colour lining each fat curve, and all the dots are in a stunning blue. The blue helps him focus away from his father’s voice. The blue is the same colour his eyes are, he thinks resolutely.

“Victor are you paying attention to me?” His father barks.

Victor tenses, and then internally curses himself for tensing. His father won’t let that go. He would have been able to play it off had he been better able to control his body, but no. He tensed, and now any lie would seem flat. Victor’s young mind races for the best possible solution. There are no good outcomes, only slightly less terrible ones. Anger and agony tighten inextricably around his organs.

Victor choses silence. He raises his eyes demurely to his father’s. He can’t look him in the eye, but his mother taught him a trick for that. Look directly between his eyes, at the bit of skin between his eyebrows. It helps, marginally.

“I was asking if you knew what you did wrong, Vitya?” His father’s voice is soft. Victor doesn’t understand it.

“Yes, father.”

“What did you do wrong, Vitya?” his voice stays smooth.

“I…”Victor hunted through his mind for the response his father wanted to hear.

“I disappointed you.” Victor answers.

His father shakes his head sadly. 

“Victor you are not thinking about your behaviour I see.”

Victor’s heart rate picks up.

“I am not disappointed. Honestly I don’t care. This is not about me, Victor. This is about you. Think harder.” There’s a pause. His father uncrosses his legs beneath the desk and leans forwards. “Do not be stupid.”

Victor’s mind races.

“I-I disappointed Russia!” Victor cries out in anguish.

His father tuts and shake his head ‘no’.

“That may be true, Victor. That may be true, but thankfully for you, all of Russia is not in this room with us.” He falls silent, scrutinizing Victor standing ramrod straight with rigid shoulders.

Victor struggles to keep himself from hyperventilating.

“I can see I will have to spell it out for you today. But don’t forget this, Victor, it is your biggest weakness.” His father sighs. Clears his throat. His voice booms.

“You disappointed yourself, Victor. You failed yourself, when you knew you could do better.”

Victor nods frantically.

“Can you do better than what I saw today?” There’s a threat implicit in the words.

“Yes!” Victor almost shouts. “I know I can.”

Another beat. Victor’s shin itches, but he doesn’t scratch.

“If what you say is true, then why didn’t I see that today?”

Victor shake his head, stumped.

“Can I tell you why, son?” His father’s voice is feather light.

Victor nods so hard he nearly gives himself a crick in the neck.

“When I see a silver medal like this,” Victor’s father picks up the dull circle of metal, thumbing it like a coin. “I see someone who didn’t try hard enough. Someone who didn’t want to win.”

Victor’s insides churn, and he’s not sure why. His father is just telling the truth, after all.

“But I did want to-!” Victor can’t help himself. He knows his father must be right, but he honestly, seriously tried. It had been a tough competition. Coach Yakov had told him he had done brilliantly.

“No, no.” his father interjected, calmly but coldly. “Lying at this point is no use.” Victor clapped his jaw shut.

“You say you wat to win, you say you know yourself, and that you can perform better, but instead of a gold this is silver. You don’t want to win.” His father paused. Victor could feel his eyes sizing him up, finding him wanting. He wished his skin were made of metal. He wished his mind was made of stone. Then everything would slide right off him. It wouldn’t have to feel like this.

“Or maybe you are worse than even I thought?” His father mused. “Maybe you _can_ win but instead you just choose to waste everybody’s time?”

The idea pierces through Victor. He is suddenly revolted with himself.

“No, no!” Victor struggles to choke out. He knows he is far too close to crying.

“Maybe I should tell your poor mother she can stop taking you to the rink, since you don’t care?”  
Victor shakes his head again.

“Are you sure? She works so hard every day - and then instead of resting, she generously decides to take you all the way to practice.”

Victor shakes his head, then petrified his reaction is the wrong one, switches to nodding. Then he freezes.

“I can- I can take myself! Mama can rest because I know the way! I don’t mind going by myself- ” His father speaks over him, uncaring.

“-It would certainly be wonderful for me to stop paying these very, very expensive coaching fees, and buying these new skates all the time. I’m only doing for you, but if you don’t care, then I can stop doing that very easily.”

“I- I do care.” Victor squeezes out of his impossibly tight vocal chords.

“Then why do you keep failing yourself, Victor? Letting yourself down with these mediocre performances? Letting your coach down when he has put so much effort into you? Letting your mother down?”

Victor tries to speak, shuts his mouth again, and simply nods.

“You know that I don’t care about these trivial things- skating competitions, coaching money- I’m not disappointed because you didn’t win.”

Victor is confused. It breaks through the miasma of awful feeling that surrounds him. He wants to squint at his father. He raises his head, almost curious as to what was to follow.

“I’m disappointed because you are failing yourself. Not the prizes- your attitude, your behaviour, you as Victor. You aren’t learning to strive.” The words are delivered like the solution to all his problems.

“That’s what I care about- who you are trying to be, what kind of man is growing up here in front of me. If you become a man who does nothing but disappoints himself, and then pretends that he’s achieved something, well then it will be _my_ failure. You understand?”

Victor doesn’t really. But he nods. His eyes glaze over and he wishes he had kept his mind on the carpet. It was safe there. 

“It was good we had this talk.”

Victor almost collapses from relief. That phrase made it sound like the ordeal was nearly over.

“I know better than to expect anything from a lazy and irresponsible child, but Victor, I hope and pray that you take these things I have said to heart. Even if you don’t care about doing well for yourself- think of your mother. _She_ loves you.” 

The implication hangs over him as surely as if it had been said out loud. _She_ loves you. _I don’t._

“I understand, father.” It was the first whole sentence he had managed. To his own ears it sounded completely foreign. Just sounds with no sense. It was by some miracle that his voice sounded real and sincere, nothing like the thin sheet of paper he was inside.  The agony was ebbing slightly. Underneath it was a vast and deep hatred. He wanted to rip everything apart. He wanted to take his tiny, six year old fists and smash the ice of the rink, smash his skates, rip this stupid carpet to shreds. He wanted to hit his father so that it hurt.

“You may go back to your room.”

“Yes, father.”

Victor turned to leave. Nothing felt so good as the twist of the fibres under his heel. Escape. Freedom.

“Victor – ” his father called him back. Victor turned mid-stride, trying his best to wipe the stricken look of worry from his face.

“Yes, father?”

His father held out his arms in invitation. A hug.

“Come and say thank you to your father.”

For a moment, he was angrier than he had ever been in his life. He didn’t understand what his father wanted. He was a disappointment, a total failure, his father didn’t even love him, and now he was telling Victor to come and say ‘Thank you’?

A second passed, and his father waited. The agony flooded back, replacing the rage.

The murderous desires evaporated into a burning shame. He ran into his father’s arms.

“Papa!” His father enveloped him in a hug. This was the best feeling in the entire world. Victor melted against the large man. Warm, grateful tears threatened to spill over.

“Thank you papa. I know I can- I can be better!”

“I know, Vitya.” His father’s large hands patted his back.

“You aren’t going to be lazy, are you?”

Victor shook his head, still buried against his father’s side.

“Good boy.”

Victor’s happiness and relief washed through him in an indomitable wave. The awful pain of mere moments ago was washed away with the tide. He opened his eyes to the corridor. He was back to himself, standing stock still staring at nothing. His father was dead.

A grown man, nearing thirty, Victor still shuddered at the memory. The thoughts now came with a sickly kaleidoscope of feelings. Bright rage and failure blossoming into guilt, slices of triumph sparkling amongst the regret and futility. A bone-gnawing sorrow flooding it all. It was too much to feel, all at once.

He ran to where he had always gone: the ice.

It was supposed to be lighter exercises for this session. He was supposed to be working on his short program. Early in his career, Yakov had suggested an extended arrangement of Grieg’s _In the Hall of the Mountain King._ He had broken his first world record with it.  It was a stunner, it had been then, and it would be again, with his age and experience. It was a cheeky song, and its crescendo was frenetic. It never failed to excite an audience.

It would be best to run his choreography, take it easy on the jumps. That had been the plan.

The memory churned his stomach like an awful cauldron of pain. He decided it would be a quads day instead.

He barely greeted Yakov. He rushed his warm ups. The light was wrong in the rink. Everything looked like that fucking carpet. He pushed off faster, taking his laps at breakneck speed.

Yakov called him over, but he pretended not to hear. He wove around the other skaters. There was a clean and empty section just ahead of him. Enough space for a jump.

“Vitya what the devil are you doing?”

He drowned out Yakov’s loud voice, speeding up for a quad lutz.

When he skated fast enough, when he launched that perfect jump, everything fell away. Somewhere in between the agony in his knees and the clenching burn in his thigh muscles, and the solid bite of the top of his skate against the top of his feet, memories fizzled out and those voices shut up and he couldn’t feel his father’s hands on his back, and everything awful about himself as a person was banished for a singular, clean, ice-bright moment.

He came down with a slight wobble. A failure. Try again.

“-tor! Victor!” Yakov’s voice. Far away. Unimportant.

He lined up again, recklessly. He didn’t think about landing this one at all- all he wanted was to be in the air. Out of his skin.

Sure enough, he didn’t land it. He overbalanced the second his skate touched down, and he smacked the ice with a horrendous crack and crunch. All his breath was forced out of him and he sprawled flat, trying to wheeze some oxygen into his lungs.

Perhaps trying a quad five seconds into his practice had been a mistake.

After a long moment of dizziness, he took quick stock of his body:

Shoulder, bruised. Hands, stinging. Elbow- fucking sore. Hips- also fucking sore. Legs- still attached. Not so sore, comparatively. Ankles- all connected. No sharp pains. Ribs bruised but okay.  Good. Nothing bleeding, either? No. Maybe. Just the inside of his cheek. Oh well, that wasn’t so bad, all considered. He _did_ know how to fall, after all.

“-the hell was that?! Victor! My god what kind of foolishness-?”The angry yells filtered into his consciousness. Oh. Probably Yakov still.

Victor scraped himself upright, sitting on the freezing cold ice. He had a distant thought that he was taking rather long to get up. He tried again to get his bearings. That wasn’t so terrible. He could see the rinkside, and it was from the correct angle. He could make out the empty stands as well. One or two curious heads staring at him. Some chatter from other skaters off to the opposite side of the rink. Maybe he should try getting up? He shifted his weight, then caught sight of an angry, puffy cloud coming closer.

Yakov was skating towards him. Victor shook his head. No, Yakov wasn’t skating. He was walking directly on the ice. Why was he walking on the ice? Wow. He looked like a penguin.

“Yakov you look like a penguin.” He offered as Yakov approached.

Yakov glared.

“Vitya, you reckless boy, can you stand?” He sounded worried. More worried than angry. Wow.

Victor pulled himself gingerly to his knees, and even more gingerly to his feet. Yakov’s hand came out to grip his elbow and forearm, steadying him. Victor winced at the touch but was grateful for the help. Victor skated to the boards as slowly as a novice. Yakov waddled behind him, a fierce frown tattooed onto his brow.

“Sit down, Victor. The medics are coming.” Two personnel in white shirts were, in fact, already hurrying over. Victor slumped to the bench. Yakov handed him his skate guards, then hovered to make sure he put them on the blades correctly.

“You are going home, Victor. Recover from whatever foolish ideas possessed you today. We can practice tomorrow.” Yakov grunted, staring him down.

Victor knew better than to complain. His skates came off. The medics pressed and bent and lightly rotated his limbs. He nodded and shook his head in the right places. One of the women, wearing a serious expression, lifted his shirt and applied cooling gel to his sore ribcage. His lower back received the same, plus muscle tape. When he spat some blood from his cheek into a tissue, they proffered some mouth spray, pink and anti-bacterial and soothing. 

They pronounced him fine- Foolish? Yes. Brusied? Certainly. But physically fine. Yakov was worried he had given himself a concussion. The medic woman recommended Victor watch out for it. Such an injury was familiar to skaters. Victor and Yakov were very used to taking care of possible head injuries.

Yakov called Yuuri, waking him from a nap. Victor felt guilty for waking his sleeping beauty, and subsequently sending him into a mild panic.

“He did what?!” Yuuri’s voice, speaking Russian, travelled over the small phone speaker.

Yakov grunted meaningfully in reply.

“I’m telling you because I am almost certain that Vitya would conveniently forget to mention to you how he managed to get a possible concussion.”

Yakov was still staring at him. His expression was tight and inscrutable.

Victor looked away. Yakov was a little bit right. He would have mentioned falling, but skimmed over the bits where he jumped recklessly and with no care for his body whatsoever.

“I’m on the way. Thank you for taking care of him, Coach.” Yuuri said.

Yakov, still hesitant around how honestly Yuuri respected him, just cleared his throat and grumbled out that it was merely his job to do so.

They sat in silence after Yuuri hung up. Victor had run out of words, and run out of energy to make them up to assuage the tension. Yakov had never been one for idle chat.  After a minute of swaying where he sat, however, Yakov sighed and offered his shoulder for Victor to lean on, placing a supporting arm around his back.

“Don’t fall asleep, Vitya.” He reminded him.

“Yes, coach.” Victor replied tiredly.

“Oh! Now he has ears.” Yakov groused, but with an almost inaudible hint of humor.

Victor heard it though, and chuckled. The tension was broken after that, and they Victor enjoyed the comfort while they waited for Yuuri to come pick him up.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought? Especially about the whole scene with Victor's father...I'm really hoping that came out alright.
> 
> I was playing sad piano music the while writing this whole thing, so Yuuri's SP is a jumble of all of that- but this song in particular I thought came closest to what I had in mind: [Spinning Nowhere by Elijah Bossenbroek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPvwUOYgQDo&index=14&list=PL5ypQpxjcWm-cHMh_DM7wVzyPLzlDe1R4)
> 
> and of course [Grieg's In the Hall of a Mountain King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLp_Hh6DKWc)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for being the most erratic updater on the face of the planet. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has been commenting and leaving kudos. I love you!

In the first August of their blossoming engagement, Yuuri discovered that lounging by the pool was Victor’s favourite summer activity. With the triumph of his recent gold and the still unbelievable glory of having successfully defended his world record against Victor’s comeback, the summer holidays felt particularly glorious. Yuuri sat with Victor in between his legs, dotting sunblock over Victor’s sensitive neck and broad shoulders; taking his time to massage it into his skin. Victor’s eyes were closed in bliss behind his large, amber-tinted shades.

Yuuri’s hands finished their job and snaked around Victor’s collar, drawing him back against him so that he could skate nonchalant touches over Victor’s bare chest. It was sticky with sunblock and sweat and the St. Petersburg sunshine.

Victor brought his hands up to brush with Yuuri’s. He ran his left hand over the skin of Yuuri’s knuckles.

“Ahhh, my Yuuri. Your poor hands.” He exclaimed softly. He was referring to the delicate scarring and callouses marking the skin. Hands that hand fallen to the ice many times, and scraped back up again many more.

Yuuri snorted into the nape of Victor’s neck.

“Not like yours are any better.” He rebuffed.

“So painful!” Victor chided anyway.

Yuuri rolled his eyes a little.

“You better not look at my feet then.”

They both sighed in mutual chagrin. The suffering their feet endured as dancers and skaters couldn’t be overstated.

Yuuri pressed his fingertips to a small burn scar on Victor’s forearm.

“What’s this one from?” He asked.

Victor glanced down at the little scar.

“Ironing.” He laughed.

“Ah, ow.” Yuuri hissed empathetically.

“Mari- _neesan_ wouldn’t let me anywhere _near_ the _onsen’s_ industrial iron until I was, hmm, nearly thirteen?”

Victor chuckled.

“Smart woman, your sister.”

 

Victor extracted himself from Yuuri’s hug to take a drink of his sparkling white wine, placed a safe distance away from the poolside. Yuuri shifted backwards to lounge against the deck chair, stretching side to side to pull out his back muscles.

Victor admired him, drink in hand, before returning to perch at Yuuri’s side on the narrow slats.

Yuuri’s hands smoothed down Victor’s bared legs. Well, the thigh that was within his reach. Victor thought he was appreciating his muscles at first, but then Yuuri touch turned thoughtful, and he stroked across a long, flat-edged scar running diagonally from his inner thigh all the way to the upper front.  It was flanked on either side by little shiny dots of skin- stich marks.

“Bad skating accident.” Victor supplied.

Yuuri nodded, pensive.

“I remember.”

“ _You_ remember?” Victor laughed, eyebrows raised.

“You were rushed to the hospital, _you ass._ The whole skating community was worried.”

Victor rubbed the back of his neck ruefully.

“It wasn’t that serious.”

“I followed the whole thing on Twitter.  It _was_ serious. You lost a lot of blood and you were in hospital for days.”

“It was two days.”

“Half the internet thought your leg had been cut off or something.”

Yuuri pouted at him, daring him to downplay it again.

Victor pouted right back, but didn’t challenge him.

“You got cut by a skate, right?” Yuuri asked with genuine curiosity. His hand had settled itself over the scar.

Victor pushed his fringe out of his eyes and leaned back on his free arm.

 “Yeah.  I was jumping too close to my rink-mate. I think we must have flubbed our jumps simultaneously, because we crashed into each other. At speed. I caught the skate blade right up my thigh.”

Yuuri winced, fingers gripping at Victor’s knee.

“Lucky our injuries weren’t any worse, actually.”

Yuuri nodded fiercely. Anxiety gripped at his chest at the thought.

“God, you could have nicked an artery.”

Victor swallowed. Yuuri stroked at the funny, wrinkled skin of his knee, pushing the anxiety away with the warm, living, reality of Victor under his touch.

“It looks like it hurt.”

Victor looked a little abashed.

“It did.”

They fell silent. The sun soaked up their feelings; replaced them with light. Victor took another sip and Yuuri hunted for his own glass. Victor watched the light bouncing frenetically on the pool’s shimmering surface. The bright azure blue of the sky reflecting in the water was hypnotizing.

Victor stood up suddenly, setting his glass down and tossing his sunglasses into Yuuri’s lap. In moments he was beneath the water with a graceful dive. Popping up from amidst the splash, cheeks full of water, he swam to the edge closest to Yuuri. He attacked Yuuri with a squirt of pool water with more grace than should be allowed for someone essentially just spitting.

Yuuri squawked and yelled his name. Victor just laughed and did it again. And again. Until Yuuri gave in and jumped in, soaking him with the splash.

Yuuri was thinking of that scar when Yakov called him to say that Victor had taken a bad fall at the rink. The worst case scenario, a bleeding, mortally wounded Victor, strobed across his thoughts. Yakov had assured him that it wasn’t anything like that. Victor had been reckless and he needed some looking after. But still, Yuuri’s fear lingered.

Yuuri tapped his phone screen to end the call with Yakov. He squashed his thumb in the heel of his sneaker as he tried to pull them on hurriedly. He rammed his glasses onto his nose and stuffed himself into a hooded coat from the rack- it might have been Victor’s- he was in too much of a rush to care. He bolted out the door, heading to the rink to go fetch his possibly concussed fiancé.

One week until the World Championships. Less than seven days of solid ice time. Yuuri and Victor would soon have flights to catch and rest to catch up on. It was beyond worrying that Victor was throwing himself around and getting injured only days away from a competition.

Victor sometimes acted foolishly, yes, but he was not a fool. He was playful, and independent, and stubborn, but he treated himself well. He had a 12-step skincare routine. He went regularly to his physiotherapist – and actually heeded the advice he was given. He respected his training schedule and his rest days- even though they made him antsy. When Yakov told him to go easy on the jumps- he _usually_ listened.

He had been acting strangely since that damned phone call. Yuuri cursed fate. He had a few ideas about what kind of parents Victor must have had for him to have ended up so tight-lipped and anxious about them. Yuuri had a loving family, which he thought he took for granted too often. He couldn’t picture what it might be like to not have his family’s love. He wasn’t _that_ naïve. He didn’t think everyone had brilliant, nurturing, home lives. But there was a fundamental horror to the idea of being hurt by one’s parents which Yuuri was afraid to contemplate too deeply. Like what it really meant that Victor had _disowned_ them. Both. It was as dramatic and extreme as he could possibly imagine. He might even have laughed at the idea if it had been something on TV.

And worse, Victor had been so distant. Yuuri had been pretending it was okay. It wasn’t anything he had done, he knew that, rationally. But Victor was closed off and he wished he just knew why. He would soon be concocting wild theories about what was happening, what Victor was feeling, and how that all boiled down to ‘I’m tired of you. I don’t want to be with you anymore.’ Yuuri refused to let himself go down that path – but it was getting harder to fend off the insecurity with Victor sealing himself off and then apparently combusting on the ice.

Did Victor _want_ to get hurt? Did he not want to compete? Didn’t he want to face Yuuri on the ice? To skate his best? To perform his art?

For Yuuri, skating was where he went to centre himself. When everything else was overwhelming, awful, confusing, and scary- he could always go back to the ice, and feel even just a little bit better. It wasn’t the only thing that made him feel that way- not at all. But if skating didn’t fulfil him like it did he doubted he would have stayed with the sport as a career. He thought it was somewhat the same for Victor; a mixture of passion and freedom.

Chris had said something to Victor last season, when Victor had announced his return.

“So you do live for life on the ice, after all.” Chris had sounded so happy to hear Victor was back.

Yuuri hadn’t understood the “after all.” Of course Victor lived for life on the ice. How could he not?

The rink appeared in his view, with a sorry-looking Victor waiting for his escort home.  

Victor and Yuuri arrived home in silence. There was something blistering between them. Victor felt what he guessed was anger radiating from Yuuri’s hunched shoulders and tight fists. But it was also something lost, and sorrowful.

Victor felt guilty, and a little pathetic. He had not been aware of himself. He was back to acting on the things he used to talk himself out of doing. Uncontrolled, irresponsible ways of behaving. He was falling back into familiar, horribly familiar patterns. The awful second skin of his. The mask with no man behind it. The shell of Victor Nikiforov, as three-dimensional as his face on a glossy magazine page.

He had to put a stop to it. Or at least wrench up the handbrake to slow himself down.

Yuuri dropped Victor’s bags at the door and breezily returned Makka’s greetings. Yuuri didn’t want to leave to calm down, because he needed to keep Victor awake, because he may or may not have given himself a damn concussion.  He shuffled Victor onto the couch and took his jacket to hang up on the coat rack. He filled a glass with water and placed it in Victor’s hand. He did this all without looking Victor in the eye.

“Yuuri…”Victor began, but Yuuri gently held up a hand to stop him.

“Drink some water.” He said softly.

Victor felt his stomach drop out. His words disappeared into his throat. He sipped obediently at the glass.

The two sat in silence while Makka sniffed around them and huffed off, disappointed by the lukewarm reception.

Victor tensed for an attack, fixing a blithe but painful smile on his face. He tried his best to feign disaffection, to seem strong and okay and his usual flippant self.

He hated that reaction of his. Brace for pain and force a smile through it. He hated how petrified he was of being vulnerable, even with the love of his life.

Yuuri still hadn’t said a word. Victor waited. Another few moments went by, but Yuuri didn’t speak. Victor chanced a look up.  Yuuri had his head hanging between his shoulders, staring past his knees at his feet. He looked up when he felt Victor’s gaze on him. Yuuri’s expression was raw and open, nothing like the anger Victor was expecting. He felt a bit thrown.

Yuuri raked his gaze over Victor’s haggard face and tightly curled body. The strange pained not-smile on his face. Like he expected that Yuuri was about to attack him.  A few seconds passed while staring at each other like that. Unbidden, tears pooled in Yuuri’s eyes and began sliding down his cheeks.

Victor jumped to attention. He was more than startled. He had prepared for anger- not for this.

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri sighed weakly through the tears. He wiped gently at his eyes and sniffled.

The mood changed between them. Victor realised he had completely misunderstood what Yuuri was feeling. He had misread him entirely, largely in part to the sick expectation of violence that had been ingrained in him. Relief and guilt washed through him in equal measure. His long hands reached over to rest on Yuuri’s knees.

Yuuri sniffed again.

“‘M sorry-“Yuuri said a little more calmly. “I’m just,” he thought for a moment,

“I’m just worried.”

“…Worried?” Victor hadn’t said anything in so long that his voice caught on the word.

Yuuri nodded.

“Worried about you.” He replied.

“I…” Victor gripped Yuuri’s knees in comfort and apology. He saw himself now, making assumptions based on his fears. It actually soothed him. It was a kind of reality check that pulled him from that awful place of doubt and pain.

“I thought you would be angry.” Victor confessed honestly.

“”I… Not really. And not at you.” Yuuri told him.

 “I think I’m angry at everything because I’m frustrated. I just don’t know what to do.” Yuuri pierced him with a look. It dared Victor to deny that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry, my Yuuri.” Victor whispered.

Victor took in the man in front of him, aching over the hurt he could read in his body language. The time for tiptoeing around what had been happening was long past.

Yuuri cleared his throat and brushed his cheeks vigorously. Yuuri backtracked. He made to stand up.

“It’s okay Victor, I’m just tired. You getting hurt worries me okay?” He said in a cheery, joking tone, doing his best to change the mood.

 He was giving Victor an out from this conversation. A lie for Victor’s comfort. A sacrifice to put off the things Yuuri rightfully needed him to talk about.

Victor stopped him from getting up.

“No.” Victor caught his hands with his. He met Yuuri’s eyes with a serious look.

“No. Yuuri, stay.”

“I’m worrying you. I’ve hurt you.” Victor looked at him with apology, with a plea.

Yuuri half-heartedly tried to tug himself away.

“It’s – don’t worry about it.” Yuuri said. He had been about to say that it was fine, but it _wasn’t_ fine, and he just couldn’t quite manage saying that it was.

“Let me do this, Yuuri.” Victor said, not letting Yuuri go.

Yuuri slumped in defeat and relief.

“Okay, Victor.”  Yuuri sighed tiredly, “Yeah. Yes. Please let’s.”

Sitting together on the couch knowing he was finally going to hash things out brought Victor a mixture of resignation, trepidation, and calm.

Now that it was out in the open, he felt a little less intimidated by it all. He figured that would dry up as soon as he had to start speaking though.

“It’s just me, Victor.” Yuuri said, as if reading his mind. He had one knee up on the couch, facing Victor. He rested his head on the back of the couch. A little smile played at his mouth and his hand tousled his own hair idly.

“Yours is the only opinion I really care about, Yuuri.” Victor said with a little smile.

“You really think my opinion of you is going change?” Yuuri asked without expecting an answer. “Victor I am going to marry you.”

Victor’s heart skipped a beat, and he smiled widely.

“And I’m going to marry _you_.”

He held Yuuri’s gaze, both smiling at each other giddily. Victor was getting lost in the look Yuuri was giving him. In the way Yuuri saw him.

“Why aren’t we getting married _right now_?” Victor asked him adoringly.

Yuuri flushed but didn’t look away like he might have done earlier on in their relationship.

 “Because we want to have an extravagant wedding with all of our friends?” Yuuri mused. “And we want to focus on our skating, on gold medals, or something?’ He teased.

Victor shook his head.

“We were young and foolish when we made those decisions.” He intoned mock-sagely. “I’d rather marry you right here on this couch.”

“We’re not getting married just to avoid this conversation.” Yuuri quipped with a raised eyebrow.

Victor huffed a laugh but grew a little more serious.

“You’re right, you’re right.” He exhaled. He ran a rough hand over his forehead and through his hair.

“Right. Okay. Yeah.” A beat. He hummed and cleared his throat again.

“Yes. Let’s go. Let’s-”

“Maybe I can tell you what I’ve been feeling? And we can…we can go from there?” Yuuri suggested, throwing Victor a bone because he was so obviously floundering.

Victor nodded. Yuuri fell quiet. After another long moment of shuffling and finding his voice, Yuuri haltingly began.

“I’m feeling so…far away from you Victor. Not in every way-“Yuuri shot him a look to let him know he wasn’t referring to their sex life, “- but with your... With how you are.”

Yuuri swallowed and continued.

“It feels like you closed a door between us. And I don’t know _why_.” He stumbled over the last word, too much emotion leaking out. He resigned himself back in.  “I thought it was getting better for a while, but then something like this happens and then I feel far away all over again.”

Yuuri shrugged a bit sadly.

“Sometimes I worry that I’ve done something wrong…”

Victor bit his tongue, knowing better by now than to interrupt, although he wanted to reassure Yuuri that that was not the case.

“But I also know that it’s probably because of…because of what happened with your father.” Yuuri finished softly.

“I don’t know if it’s even possible, but I don’t really need to know the… details of what growing up was like for you.” Yuuri grimaced at his own euphemistic language. “I just want to know how you are _now_ , here in the present.”

Victor looked ready to jump in by this point, but Yuuri pressed on one last time.

“Because Victor, how…how am I supposed to…to love you properly? If you go somewhere deep inside yourself? I want to be by your side in this also. I need you to give me …something.” He drew sudden inspiration from the ether.

“I need you to give me a map!” he concluded decisively.

Victor actually chuckled at that. He had said it the same way he had said _Katsudon_ was his _Eros_. Yuuri looked at him expectantly. Waiting for his map, Victor humorously thought.

“Yuuri.” Victor started. “It’s true. I’ve been…distant. I’ve been all over the place.” Just hearing him acknowledge it helped a knot unwind in Yuuri’s chest.

“Sometimes I know I’m doing it – withdrawing, that is. Other times I don’t know I’m doing it until it’s already happening. Or I know I’m doing it but I can’t seem to- it’s hard to stop?”  Victor phrased it as a question, checking that Yuuri was still following what he meant.

Yuuri nodded. Victor continued.

“Like today, I... I knew I wasn’t- I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t stop myself. It felt like everything happened so quickly.”

“You mean, on the ice?” Yuuri asked.

“Being an idiot on the ice, yes.” Victor replied.

Yuuri nodded.

“I know I can- I don’t need to cut myself off. I can act differently. I _have_ acted differently. Sometimes I’m even good at it.” Victor looked around the room for some sort of strength.

Yuuri clasped his hand suddenly.

“I know.” Yuuri hushed him. “It’s why I noticed, right? Because it’s different to, to before.”

 _To before your father died._ Victor heard the unsaid distinction.

“Yeah…” Victor said softly, knowing the conversation had circled back around to what he was dreading.

“Yuuri I don’t want to be closed off from you.” He said with a note of desperation.

“You said it was fine of you didn’t have all the _details._ I- I appreciate that.”

“But?” Yuuri could hear the ‘but’ forthcoming. Victor flashed a short grin.

“But,” He sighed. “Everything is tied up together. Inside me. I remember things and I feel…” Victor trailed off. He tried again:

“I don’t think any of it would make sense without the context.”

“And the context…”Victor cast around in his memory. He saw his father’s desk. He saw his skates thrown across the room in a fit of his father’s rage.  He saw his mother look away from his sobbing, again.

His chest grows heavy. It hurts. He shuts his eyes against it.

“I don’t know if I could manage explaining.” He didn’t want to leave it there. “But I _must_ explain _something_. I told you before, there are things I want to tell you. It’s not, it’s not the best idea. Keeping it all to myself.”

His words were already a marked change from before. Yuuri ached with each one, with pain and with gratitude.

Yuuri stroked his cheek and Victor opened bleary eyes, leaning into the touch.

“Start small?” Yuuri suggested. “Start very, very, small.”

Victor hummed in agreement, trying to think of where to begin.

“At least tell me what your father’s name is?” Yuuri asked.

Victor blinked in surprise.

“My father’s…name?” he looked at Yuuri in sheer bewilderment.

Yuuri nodded earnestly. Victor tipped his head to the side in genuine bafflement. Caught completely off guard, Victor started laughing.

“What? Victor…!” Yuuri didn’t know if he should be worried or offended. His cheeks puffed out, incensed.

Victor was still giggling, but he petted Yuuri tenderly to assuage the worried frown.

“Yuuri…what’s my name?”

Yuuri looked totally nonplussed.

“Victor? What on earth…?”

“My full name.”

“Victor Nikiforov…?” Yuuri squinted at him suspiciously, as though he would produce an entirely different name from behind his back and shout: ‘surprise!’

“And my middle name?” Victor encouraged.

“Victor…Andreievitch?”

Victor stared at him, smiling.

Yuuri blinked.

Victor smiled a little wider, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Yuuri frowned and pouted, racking his brain for why on earth this was relevant to Victor’s dad’s name. He tugged at a lock of his hair, loosening the cogs in his memory.

“-Oh! Patronyms!”

“Yes; ‘oh’,” Victor teased.  “Yuuri, how could you forget such an essential part of Russian culture?”

Yuuri blushed a little, but shot right back:

“This coming from the man who wanted to call my sister by her _first name_ two minutes after meeting her.”

Victor blushed this time.

 “I thought that honorifics were just for, you know, _older_ people.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes and grinned.

“Well I forgot what a patronym is, so we’re even.”

Victor kissed his cheek.

“We’re even.”

“So your dad’s name was Andrei?” Yuuri said.  

“Yeah.” Victor breathed out the word.

Yuuri sobered. Victor sill had a weird smile on his face.

“He was, awful, Yuuri. Awful.”

Yuuri clamped down on his reaction. He nodded. He waited.

Victor took a breath, and decided to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have ended a bit abruptly there but like…that whole scene was just one (1) intense conversation. One convo for a whole chapter. I think there needs to be a bit of chill before the rest of it. (I need a bit of chill before the rest of it.) 
> 
> Victor is laughing at me, because I wrote Yuuri being confused about his dad’s name like 500 chapters ago because I’m not Russian and *I* forgot about patronyms. Had to write my dumbassery into the story somehow.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can! I love love love hearing from you all.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took me months to write. It was a lot to get through. It's just as heavy as the previous chapter, if not heavier, so prepare for the angst. 
> 
> TW: child abuse discussion.

_He was awful._   What does awful really mean? Victor disliked the ambiguity. He disliked the feelings of doubt that rose with the word- they looked like a crowd of sneers and raised eyebrows. A dangerous voice that says _“Oh really?”_ and asks for the evidence, the proof. All Victor had as proof was himself. And in the game of his word against his father’s, his father had always won. The air between him and Yuuri was warm. Any other time it would be soothing. Any other conversation and he wouldn’t be straining against his instincts to get out, get out as fast as he could.

He forced down the fear. He steered his thoughts to the memory of Yuuri telling him he believed him, that night after Chris’ phone call. The soft night that Victor was still not quite sure was real. More than a year together and he’s not quite sure Yuuri is real. Yuuri had offered his trust without knowing any details, apparently without even _needing_ to know them at all. He fixed his thoughts to that. To how it felt to hold on to the light cotton of Yuuri’s t-shirt. To the feeling of Yuuri’s ribs rising and falling through those unbearably long hours.

But there isn’t one, one big example to give. Or maybe there is, but his memory is nothing but holes, just years and days of black nothing. All the lacunas leave is a knowledge of absence. Feelings and smells, like what the kitchen smelled like on a Sunday after his mother had mopped every floor with lavender-scented bleach and thrown the windows wide. The sound of the ice tray cracking, two or three cubes hitting the sides of a whiskey tumbler. Like the flood of relief when he closed his bedroom door behind himself, safe for a little while. Safe until breakfast. When he tried to think of his father, when he tried to remember outside of flashbacks and unwelcome tides of feeling, the memories slip away. His mind glances off them, as though they were behind smooth glass. He’s unable to grasp more than the unease, the slow churn of fear. Maybe the perfect example is lost somewhere there, in that void. Something that would make him feel even a little bit justified, instead of the oversensitive, grasping mess he felt like now.

Hooking onto one is hard, harder still to put into words. Worse to shove those words into dense reality.  

“He would-“Victor stops.

What did his father do? _He never did anything you didn’t deserve_. He just spoke to you.  Gave you a few lectures. He just told you the _truth_. That’s not the good voice. That’s the unreasonable one, the cruel one, the one he needs to ignore.

Victor detached from himself, unable to think about what he’s saying.   _Just get it out, just get it out._

“It wasn’t one thing. One event, one incident.” Victor started. He sighed.

“It- it would be hard to describe a...specific moment at all.” Victor shifted uncomfortably, but Yuuri remained patient, doe eyes blinking solemnly.

“It was a constant thing.” Victor tried to shake his voice into something less vulnerable, tried for a matter-of-fact tone.

He had wished and wished for some hook, some all-encompassing story. He had been ripped apart by that wishing for years. But definitive memories slipped from his grasp the harder he tried to claw. His mind was static, white-noise. He fought it, especially now. All that he could present was that undeniable feeling of _awful,_ and _pain._ It pervaded every corner of him, it lay on his bones like a blanket of rock, choked his blood, thick as syrup. It sat heaviest in his heart. Heavy and sharp. Right now it felt like he couldn’t take a breath without the jagged blades of it cutting into him.

“I never wanted to go home from the rink. I never wanted to go home from school. I stayed as far away from him as possible, most of the time.”

Yuuri nodded, Victor stared off into the distance. They heard Makka licking her paws. Late afternoon sunlight dappled the floors, beautiful and uncaring. Victor heaved a sigh into their flat’s peaceful air. It really should have been a beautiful afternoon. It was still a rather beautiful afternoon. The indifferent weather made the conversation feel all the more unreal to Victor. He felt like a black-marker scribble marring a perfect photograph. The shadow of a bird flicked past. From far away, far outside of himself, Victor heard himself speak again.

“I was so afraid, I dreaded every night. I didn’t even understand what I was so afraid of. All I could think was ‘He’s coming home soon, he’s coming home soon.’ It… paralysed me with fear. Even if there wasn’t a big fight every night- it was the possibility- anything could set him off, if my mother dropped a plate washing the dishes, if I closed the bathroom door too loudly, if the dog down the road started barking.”  

“Sometimes we could anticipate it- my mother and I- he would come home drunk, or he would start drinking, and then it was unavoidable. He would, he would get into a mood, get angry, come hunt us down.”

Yuuri inhaled sharply at the phrasing. Victor caught his eye, and Yuuri looked back at him apologetically. Victor flashed him an empty little smile and shrugged.

“I wanted to blame the drinking, at first. When I was younger I certainly did. I thought: ‘If only he didn’t drink, then he wouldn’t have been like that.’ But as I got older I realised it wasn’t the alcohol. I’m sure it made it, well, worse, but…but the alcohol couldn’t explain away the fact that he was like that always.” 

Yuuri was running his fingertips over a fold of cloth at his sleeve- an unconsciously nervous gesture. The fabric was fraying fast, a hole in the fine thread beginning to gape.

 “I loved him so much, I couldn’t understand why he, ah – why he didn’t love me.”

 Victor’s voice didn’t break. He thought it ought to, he thought that those words ought to be the worst of what he’d said. It wasn’t though. They were just empty facts now, and he almost missed the old pangs of hurt that used to come with acknowledging that truth. He felt so numb to the gravity of them, now.

Yuuri was not numb to their gravity. He had no way to wrap his head around it, the idea of feeling so utterly unloved. Of _being_ so utterly unloved.

“He said he loved me, but it hurt.”

“-It hurt?” Yuuri interrupted softly.

Victor looked at him questioningly.

“It hurt when he said that?” Yuuri asked.

“Oh,” Victor answered, “I mean, _living_ hurt. His, ah, his so-called ‘love’ hurt.”

Yuuri made a noise of comprehension and motioned for him to continue.

“It hurt all the time. And I was so _scared_. I would listen for every noise, thinking it was his car arriving home, turning down our street. Or at night I would think every sound was his footsteps, coming to find me. Coming to drag me out, just for the sake of it. To find something else wrong with me. Maybe to come take away whatever was keeping me too happy at the time.”

Victor pulled another contorted smile across his face, gazing off into nothing. Yuuri was now certain that he hated that look. He absolutely hated it. It meant that Victor was feeling profound pain.

“At dinner-time I would have to be alert. It was exhausting. I would make sure every word out of my mouth was pleasant, and that I looked happy- but not too much, you know? Just enough that he wouldn’t get angry about a bad mood, or angry because I was too much.”

Victor likened living in that household to the barbs of a blackjack, tiny, excruciating pinpricks, picked up everywhere, attaching to you without your notice. They had stuck into his flesh and burrowed deeper, a millimetre at a time. There were thousands of them. One blackjack, you could handle, One, you could manage. Stop, dust yourself off, pick the horrible thorn off carefully, then smooth your hands down your skin and let the wound heal. But ten of them- ten thousand of them- you couldn’t handle, you couldn’t manage. How could he describe to Yuuri that he had been haemorrhaging from these countless wounds over the span of twenty-odd years? That he had bled out long ago, and that he felt like a bloodless corpse? How could he convey the feeling of dragging this reanimated body around, pretending to be a real human being, but really just being a life-like skin-suit stretched over empty space?

“It never even occurred to me to disobey- if being _obedient_ was painful, I might not have survived disobedience. I knew it, on some atomic level- I needed to appease him. To just, make sure my mother and I got through the day. That we could have a quiet night, instead of another fight. Or maybe I still thought that if I was good enough, it would make it all okay. If I was good enough, he would be happy.”

Victor wanted to look at Yuuri. But he couldn’t seem to drag his eyes away from where they were locked, unfocused, and staring. He was barely even blinking.

 “He never hurt me, physically.” _This_ was the worst part. This was the hardest thing to say. This was where Victor’s voice failed and trailed off.

Yuuri swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to cry, not now. Not when he wanted to project calm and support and love.

“He never beat me, never hit me. Never raised a hand to me.”

It feels like the wrong thing to say. It sent him into a panic. A scratching kind of panic that he can’t even cling to. _Yuuri should know_. Yuuri should be aware that there’s a distinction here. Between him and people who actually deserved to be listened to. A line between whatever happened to him and real (he hates the word) abuse. He has nothing to show for himself. He waited for Yuuri to echo that confirmation, in his father’s voice, or his mother’s voice: ‘oh, well, it wasn’t so bad.’ Or ‘At least it wasn’t real abuse.’

Yuuri hadn’t said anything in reply. The silence stretched even further. Makka licked her paws and Victor lost count of how many breaths he had taken.

Victor found his courage, found his footing.

“Yuuri…?” Victor tried.

Yuuri fidgeted harder. Victor curled tighter into himself. Yuuri could see that he was expecting, perhaps even needing some sort of response, but Yuuri was at a loss.

Victor spoke in a rush:

“I know this might not sound so bad. It might be enough to convince you that I was- that this was abusive, that this was abuse -”

Yuuri jolted backwards, anger suddenly in his eyes.

“-Convince? Victor?! ‘Enough to _convince me’?”_

Victor’s jaw clacked shut. Yuuri sounded so taken-aback, so repulsed by the idea that he needed to be convinced. Yuuri dragged his hair back fiercely, and slid a palm over his face in frustration.

“Victor this is- What you’re telling me- It’s so, it’s so beyond _bad-”_

Yuuri cut off sobbing mid-sentence. Great fat tears rolled over his flushed cheeks and heaving gasps throttled the words in his throat. He reined in the involuntary response by aggressively wiping his eyes and breathing deeply into his diaphragm.

“Victor, I, I don’t know what to say.” He bleated softly. His voice thickened with pain. Victor heard it, was struck deeply by its sincerity. Yuuri looked up at him, reached out for him and then dropped his hand with an aborted gesture. Victor reached for him anyway, collected the hand that wanted to hold his, and pulled it in. He let Yuuri stroke over the thin skin of his knuckles and collect his thoughts.

The gesture, the comfort, Yuuri’s tone of voice – they let something strong rear up inside Victor, something vindicated and relieved. _What would real abuse be, then, if not that?_ He asked himself. It’s a good voice, a reasonable voice. The same voice that reminds him that, had this story been anyone else’s, he would not hesitate to say that word. Abuse.

“I don’t know what to say.”  Yuuri repeated. “Because I can’t fathom it. It sounds so, so much worse than _‘bad’…”_

Yuuri grips his hand.

“It sounds _awful._ And I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for crying again, or for the fact that Victor had lived through abuse. He thought it was both, most probably.

The words come to Victor easier, after that. It’s still a bit like pulling teeth. He still stumbled over his words. He cried. Yuuri cried some more.

Victor told him more about what it was like. Told him how much he tried to love his father through it all, against his grief, against his anger. Love him, do as he said, do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, drop everything for him, immediately, go to him, listen to his tirades, pay attention, obey him. He did all of it, over and over again- and it would be the same, the same, it would hurt, again, and there was absolutely nothing he could do that would be enough. Victor told Yuuri how he was never good enough, never pleasing enough, never quiet enough, never bright enough, how he never won enough. He told him how it hurt to come to the realization that it was not anything he did that wasn’t good enough- that it was himself as a person who was not good enough for his father.

Nothing done by a worthless person could amount to anything worthy, of course not- shit mixed with ice scream was still shit. And he was the shit. No amount of skate practice, no number of medals, nothing could dilute that.  

“And I believed it, Yuuri.” Victor admitted. “I believed everything my father said about me.” _I still believe it._  He left that unsaid. It was too ugly a confession to make.

“He’s dead, he’s dead, Yuuri, so why isn’t it gone? Why isn’t he gone? I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, I’ve been living for the day it clears up in a puff of smoke- I know that’s not how it works, but I had, I had always been hoping, just a little, that it would.”

Victor cried at that He cried for a long while. Yuuri held him, shifted their positions of the couch to tangle their bodies together To be as close as possible. Yuuri told him how much he loved him. How sorry he was. How Victor hadn't deserved any of it. That it was okay, that he wasn't a fool to have hoped all of his hurt would leave when his father died. Victor fell silent again, absorbed in the repetitive soothing of Yuuri’s hands over his back, over his hands and hair.

Into the sunlit silence, Yuuri asked another question. One he had been burning to ask.

“And your mother?”

Victor studied their intertwined hands. He sighed. Sniffed back the tail end of his tears. Sighed again.

“It’s hard to explain, Yuuri.” _What a stupid thing to say_ , Victor thought to himself. How trite, how obvious. He hated how tongue-tied he was.

“My mother-“

Yuuri cocked his head, anticipating.

“I once heard her, speaking with her friend, Anush or…? I can’t remember her. But I remember wanting to come into the kitchen, I wanted some biscuits, maybe, whatever it was. Maybe I wanted to show her my dancing. Who knows?”

Yuuri listened, humming his acknowledgement.

“And she was crying Yuuri. She was sitting at our kitchen table with a dishcloth in her hand and her friend was sitting with her. Of course I was shocked, but I couldn’t leave. Of course I knew it was about my father. It was that kind of feeling. And besides, I knew immediately that if my mother was crying, it was about my father.”

Yuuri chews on that. He boggles at that kind of reality. What must it have been like, to know with certainty, as a little child, that it was normal for your mother to cry because of your father?

“What was she saying? Did you hear her?” Yuuri prompted.

“I did, I did. They hadn’t seen me, so I overheard them. The friend was saying something like ‘Leave him, just leave him, and go to your mother.’ And I was confused because what did my grandmother have to do with anything? I was still a little naive.” Victor chuckled drily.

“And she just, she stopped crying, she got this hard look, all through her, her shoulders pushed back and she took out a cigarette from who knows where, and she said that it was impossible. That she couldn’t bear the shame of it, that she couldn’t manage it, financially.”

Yuuri closed his eyes against the harshness of it. He had expected as much, but it still hurt to hear.

“But what she said, Yuuri, to Anush, to that friend.” Victor laughs bitterly.

“She said, and I quote: ‘I wish to God I had never had that child. I could have had a life.’”

Yuuri stilled. He had not expected that at all.

“She meant it Yuuri. If you could have heard her-! I knew she meant it.”

“Oh.” Yuuri said, dumbly. He looked at Victor, searching for tears, but there were none. He looked resigned to all of it. Numb to all of it.

“That’s what it was like, living with my father.” Victor sounded conclusive, like he had finally put together some puzzle pieces.

“I knew, every day, that I was the lynch-pin, the whole reason we were stuck in that house where my father would tear you apart at his whim. I was the reason we were stuck in this hell, where he would scream and scream, or tell you how utterly worthless you were, or slam the cabinets and break glasses If you breathed too loudly on a Sunday. It was all my fault for putting us here, for keeping us here.”

Victor rattled in a long breath, but he sounded oddly satisfied, perhaps relieved.

“I thought for so long: Why, why did I have to be born? My mother could have been happy, I wouldn’t have to come home to another fit of his rage. I wouldn’t have to beg Yakov to leave my skates in his office every night just in case father decided enough was enough and destroyed them, just like he took and destroyed everything else.”

Victor looked up at Yuuri, the pained smile firmly in place but some sort of pride shining behind his eyes, too.

“And I spent so many years, most of them, working to just get out, get out. When the medals came, and the money came, I didn’t even care. It was finally enough to make an excuseto leave. Training, moving in to the dormitories to keep up with my ruthless schedule. It was all to make it possible for me to leave, and for my mother to leave. 

“God, Victor,” Yuuri shook out, “God.”

Victor nestled deeper into Yuuri, seemingly done. Drained, emptied, but happier.

“How did you survive this? Victor I can’t even imagine how you survived this.” Yuuri half mumbled half wept into his own shoulder. He had pressed his face there, to ground himself, to shut it all out, to try and take it all in.

 _I nearly didn’t survive it._ Victor thought to himself, darkly, morbidly. That’s another conversation. He couldn’t possibly manage any more now.

“Later, Yuuri. Please.” He whispered into Yuuri’s collar.

Yuuri simply nodded, and pulled Victor in tighter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was, um, hectic. If there are any glaring inconsistencies please let me know because I just wanted to finish this chapter and get it out. But it's 2am so I probably missed something important, yikes!
> 
> How was this chapter? Does it answer your questions about Victor? Please do leave a comment :) xoxo


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